


Snapshots

by LordessMeep



Series: Summit [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, But it IS Hopeful, Good Senpai Iwaizumi (TM), Hinata Does Not Go Pro, Iwaizumi Hajime POV, Kageyama Tobio POV, Lots of Sadness and Heartbreak, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Photographer Iwaizumi Hajime, Pro Volleyball Player Kageyama Tobio, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru, So. Much. Crying., University, Unrequited Love, mt. fuji, post-university, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordessMeep/pseuds/LordessMeep
Summary: About life and its unfairness. About wanting things that one can't have. About shattering, like so many shards of glass.About picking up the pieces and moving on.(Companion to 'Summit')





	1. 2018

**Author's Note:**

> So. This Happened. Oops?
> 
> This is going to expand on the rather elaborate backstory to '[Summit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9310103)', covering Iwaizumi and Kageyama's University years and beyond. Chapter names are the time they're set in. Each chapter is a standalone scene and I liked writing this quite a bit, since there was no commitment to resolving a plot, so I could just freely write whatever came to me.
> 
> Fair warning - this is not going to be happy. Expect no resolutions to the main two ships, since I didn't want to dilute the impact of the first story. It's not necessary to read 'Summit', but it'd be cool if you did, since you'd get some additional facets of the story. I will still quote any relevant portions from 'Summit' though. :D
> 
> Another thing - there will be a _little_ bit of cursing in the dialog sometimes, nothing major.
> 
> This is all that I have at the moment, but I'll try and finish this soon. Now, onwards!

*

_(Well, there was one trial that had gone better than the rest, when he’d been in the same team as him and they’d sunk in five consecutive quicks because the synchrony had been perfect, synchrony, that was a product of six years of playing, living, breathing together; but Shouyou doesn’t like to think about that.)_

*

“Quite frankly, Hinata-san,” the youngest coach tells him, a man who looks to be in his early thirties with a shock of blond hair, “We don’t have a position for you.”

Tobio watches Shouyou curl his fingers, bunching them in his volleyball shorts. He recognizes the frustration, the way it vibrates in that tiny frame – he’s seen it time and time again in people unable to climb over the wall.

Shouyou swallows and whips his head up to look at the coach, Koyama, right in the eyes. From Koyama’s expression, Tobio can tell that Shouyou must look fierce and unwavering, exactly how Tobio liked him best.

Shouyou’s voice is low and steady when he speaks, “Then why do you keep calling me back?”

Tobio stiffens. Koyama’s widened eyes meet his over Shouyou’s head and Tobio nods quickly, placing a finger on his lips. Koyama exhales and blinks once in understanding and Tobio hurriedly backs away from the pair, trusting Koyama to spin some bullshit excuse. Shouyou, his shoulders still squared, as if readying for a fight, nods as he listens to Koyama.

He tucks his hands in his pockets and walks out of the courts, ducking his head. There’s a familiar clearing of throat and Tobio spots Oikawa standing right outside the door, tucked away in a patch of darkness. Tobio nods once out of politeness – given that Oikawa and he could very well be on the same team soon. Oikawa, of course, smiles with twinkly eyes, like Tobio doesn’t bother him at all.

“So, Tobio-chan,” he drawls before Tobio can walk past him, casually inspecting his nails, “When exactly are you going to tell Chibi-chan that the only reason he’s always called back is because a certain setter refuses to join the team unless his partner joins too?”

Tobio freezes. Oikawa chuckles delightedly.

“We’re supposed to be here, _together_ ,” Tobio says gruffly, his fists clenched at his sides, “And he deserves to be here. He works harder than any of us and he’s good at what he does and-”

“They’re not wrong,” Oikawa cuts in, “The coaches,”

Tobio’s mouth snaps shut. He looks up to level Oikawa with his most furious glare, except Oikawa’s mouth is a thin line.

“If he were just a couple of inches taller, there wouldn’t even be a question of him belonging or not.” Oikawa says, bitter and reluctant. Tobio’s shoulders loosen despite himself and he watches Oikawa carefully, “Tobio-chan, they don’t know how to use him, not like you.”

“Does that mean that you can’t use him either, Oikawa-san?” Tobio challenges him and Oikawa tilts his chin up and regards him down his nose in that aggravatingly superior manner that Tobio hated.

“Of course I can,” he shoots back, “In fact, he’s a _much_ cuter kouhai than you’ve ever been.”

“Then why _not_?”

Oikawa huffs something caustic and that’s how Tobio knows that he, however reluctantly, commiserates with Shouyou, “You _know_ that we aim to make a team that’ll operate at peak efficiency.”

“He will be amazing out there,” Tobio declares because he believes this, deep in his bones.

Oikawa’s responding laugh is mirthless.

“When did you become such an optimist?”

“Are you telling me he isn’t going to be?”

“Never said that, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa wags his fingers, and then casually slides his hands in his pockets. He turns away, throwing the words over his shoulder, “But there will always be someone better than Chibi-chan. Tell me then, isn’t it better to keep him out of it now rather than later?”

Tobio watches him walk away, fighting the urge to punch something because Oikawa isn’t exactly wrong. Today, Tobio had yelled and shouted at the coaches to put him and Shouyou in the same team and they’d worked so _perfectly_ , delivering their super-fast quicks, minus tempos, the works.

But.

There were the missed receives, the blocked spikes, and even a couple of failed quicks. Their guerilla tactics worked on the opposing team for less than a fifth of a set, before they started cornering Shouyou. The coaches had looked at them and Tobio had known that they didn’t need Shouyou when they could get taller players, stronger players in his stead. No one needed a decoy when they could get the real thing instead.

 _They’re wrong_.

He can fly like no one else, he can do things that other people can’t and Tobio has the power to draw out all of his potential and, and why can’t anyone else see that?!

 _They’re **wrong**_.

Soft footsteps and Tobio turns back to the door, where Shouyou is slowly walking towards the locker room, his head bowed and fingers tight on the strap of his gym bag. He doesn’t say a word but Tobio follows him regardless. Shouyou changes slowly, dazedly, and where Tobio would be yelling at him to hurry up, he sits on the edge of the bench and waits.

Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, then twenty minutes. Tobio turns and Shouyou is sitting on the other end of the bench, a towel on his lowered head, his fingers gripping his knees through his track pants. His shoulders are still, steady, and Tobio is a little worried because Shouyou isn’t saying anything.

“We should go,” Tobio ventures, “We have a Shinkansen to catch.”

“Give me a minute,” Shouyou replies, his voice hoarse.

Tobio gives him another onceover and that’s when he notices it – Shouyou’s legs are quivering, most likely from overuse because he hadn’t held back and he’d given Tobio his 120%, like always. Except… that wasn’t enough.

_Is there only so much that can bloom from something like concrete?_

Tobio makes a snap decision and grabs his own bag, then makes a grab for Shouyou’s, zipping it up before shouldering it. He then crouches with his back facing to Shouyou, “Get on.”

“What?”

“I said, get on, idiot.”

“And I said, give me a minute, asshole.” Shouyou snaps back, his tone low and edged with frustration. Tobio bites down on the urge to fight, gives in this once.

“Just,” he pauses, carefully searching for the words, “Get on, okay? Please.”

Maybe it’s the plea, because Shouyou relents, snaking his arms around Tobio’s shoulders and Tobio hooks his elbows under Shouyou’s knees. It’s not the first time he’s carried Shouyou anywhere, but it always surprises him just how heavy he is, dense from all that muscle.

They make their way out of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym, uncaring of the looks they’re most likely getting. Shouyou tucks his face in the space between Tobio’s neck and shoulder, his breath stuttering against Tobio’s skin, but he isn’t crying. At least, not yet.

“What do you want to get?” Tobio asks, his voice soft.

“Not hungry,” Shouyou answers, his lips brushing Tobio’s neck.

“You need to eat,” Tobio tells him but Shouyou only clicks his tongue in return and lapses in silence.

Tobio wrinkles his nose in irritation, then begins making his way to the ramen ya he’d seen on their way here. He lets down Shouyou at the entrance and Shouyou snatches away his gym bag, marching into the shop and grabbing a seat. Tobio takes the seat next to him carefully and scans the menu, even though they both know that they’ll most likely be getting their usual extra-large tonkotsu topped with extra chashu and a side of gyoza.

Sure enough, they order and wolf down the meal in silence, barely looking up from their food. At a point, tears start running down Shouyou’s face and he says that it’s from the extra helping of togarashi he’d sprinkled on top of his bowl. Tobio carefully looks away and lets him pretend.

It’s more difficult to pretend when they’re walking back to the station to catch the last Shinkansen out to Sendai. Shouyou is silent as he walks beside Tobio, his face lacking the frustration and painted with defeat instead, and Tobio has no idea how to breach the wall between them.

As always, Shouyou is the one who speaks first.

“I’m done.”

Tobio whirls to him and his feet are rooted on the spot.

“ _What_?”

“No more trials. I’m done.”

Tobio isn’t thinking when he twists his fingers in the front of Shouyou’s jacket and pulls him up and he reaches down to his eye level.

“Are you telling me that you’re _giving up_?”

Shouyou lips curl back to show off teeth and the expression on his face his fierce. “Yes, I give up. I can’t do this anymore. Nothing I do is enough. I keep trying and it _isn’t enough_.”

Tobio can’t argue with that. He’s seen the way Shouyou practices and it reminds him vaguely of the desperation of a cornered animal; the kind of hunger he’d seen in Oikawa’s face at Kitagawa Daiichi, when he’d stay long past practice hours, endlessly serving till his body gave out.

His fingers loosen around Shouyou and he instead trails them up to settle on his chin and pulls it up to make him look Tobio in the eye.

“One more year.” Tobio says, “Give me one more year. We’ll show them, I swear to you.”

Shouyou doesn’t reply. Instead, his expression loosens and gives way to open wonder, his jaw slackens and his eyes are huge and luminous. Tobio doesn’t know what to make of that expression because it’s vaguely reminiscent of the way he’d looked when Tobio had relented and given him his first toss at Karasuno, but not quite. It’s more intense and it’s entirely focused on Tobio and it’s like… it’s like Tobio has hung the moon for him.

Tobio looks away, uncomfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t like that expression at all.

“Come on.” He says instead, “We’ll be late.”

Shouyou makes a small noise of assent and follows. The ride back to Sendai and their way back to their tiny shared apartment is entirely silent. They’re about to collapse on their futons when Shouyou tugs on Tobio’s arm. Tobio looks at him questioningly and Shouyou looks back with a soft smile, before pulling down Tobio and twining his arms around his neck.

“Thanks,” he whispers, his normally loud voice subdued, airy, “Tobio.”

Tobio doesn’t like the way Shouyou says his name – too intimate, too _loving_ – but he’s in no position to say anything to his closest friend, his partner on court. And he doesn’t like him sad and defeated, so he hunches a little more and comfortably tucks Shouyou against him.

“No problem.”

*


	2. December 2017

*

_Then, after their disastrous loss in the quarter finals at the Inter-Collegiate Nationals in his second year – given that Nishinoya’s broken pinky finger left them short a libero and weakened their back line defense terribly – Shouyou accompanied Iwaizumi to the hospital to check on Nishinoya._

*

The courts are open.

Tobio tucks his hands in his pockets and pulls on his scarf to tighten it. As he comes up to the Tohokudai Volleyball courts, he spots two small figures, both of them seated on the steps and facing the slightly ajar door. The light spills through and shows the distinctive blond streak in Nishinoya’s hair and the bright white of Shouyou’s bobble cap.

He stops near them and hears the squeak of volleyball shoes and the heavy slam a ball makes after a spike.

“He’s in there?” Tobio asks and Shouyou nods in answer.

“Been at it for the last two hours,” Nishinoya supplies, his tone lacking its usual fire. Understandable, of course, since they’d come back from Tokyo only yesterday after watching Chuo win the Inter-Collegiate Nationals.

“Shouldn’t we tell him to stop?” Tobio suggests but even he knows that there’s no use.

Neither of them say anything else and Tobio counts five decisive spikes before Nishinoya gets up and kicks the wall, leaving one dusty bootprint on the pristine white paint.

“This is _my_ fault,” he says staring down at his feet and curling his good hand in a fist while his other, the broken one, hangs uselessly on the side.

“Noya-san,” Shouyou reaches out with his hand.

“If _this_ ,” he brandishes the broken hand in front of Tobio and Shouyou’s faces, “If this hadn’t happened, we could’ve still gone far, we could’ve still-”

“It’s not your fault.” Tobio says grabbing Nishinoya’s shoulder and ducking to look him in the eye, “It’s no one’s fault.”

“And,” Shouyou looks at the both of them before squaring himself, “We still have next year.”

Nishinoya’s face curls up in distaste and he juts his chin at the gym doors. “ _He_ doesn’t.”

“All the more reason to.” Shouyou says, firm and resolute, “We’ll show them next year and we’ll make Iwaizumi-san proud.”

Nishinoya stares at Shouyou before turning back to Tobio and Tobio nods in agreement. Nishinoya’s face scrunches up in a way that indicates that he’s about to tear up, something they’ve learned from years of acquaintance, and Nishinoya abruptly turns and stamps away, scrubbing his face with one sleeve.

Shouyou gives Tobio’s wrist a squeeze.

“I’ll get him.” he says, then looks back at the doors, his face showing worry, “Can you…”

“Yeah,” Tobio replies immediately and Shouyou shoots him a quick, grateful smile before following Nishinoya. Tobio settles in the spot the two had left vacant and turns to the gap in the doors. He looks closely and, sure enough, Iwaizumi is standing on one side of the court, and Tobio counts three ball bins. Two are empty and the third is still full. Focused, Iwaizumi tosses the ball in the air and solidly spikes it on the other side, and Tobio watches him repeat the motions over and over, before turning away to give him a semblance of privacy.

Tobio counts the thuds of the ball, the sound soothing his soul. Their loss at the Nationals had been hard on the team, especially Iwaizumi. Of course, Iwaizumi hadn’t showed it; he’d been calm and strong all through the rest of the matches, repeatedly assured Nishinoya that it wasn’t his fault and cuffed him in the head once, and he’d been perfectly professional when he’d relegated his duties to Aone.

Tobio is worried, of course; they all are. But, what do you say to someone whose volleyball career has ended with a loss?

Suddenly, there’s loud, metallic clank and then the sound of multiple balls hitting the court. A grunt, as if someone is heaving something heavy, and there is another sound of metal hitting the floor. Tobio immediately gets to his feet but then stops at the threshold when there is a pained yell and then, Iwaizumi is screaming.

Tobio peeks through the door and sound of Iwaizumi’s voice, guttural and broken, raw and edged with desperation, echoes in the courts. The balls bins are upturned and lie on their sides and the half empty one has balls spilling out of it. Tobio watches Iwaizumi bend to pick up a ball then serve it as hard as he can, aimless and uncontrolled, all while he’s still yelling and cursing out an unseen opponent and he asks – _Why?_

“Why?!” Iwaizumi cries out as he picks up and serves another ball, the contact making a hard thunk, “Why am I not _enough_?! Why am I _never enough_?!!”

 _You **are**_ , Tobio wants to tell him; wants to march in and shake him till he gets it.

Instead of doing any of that, he leans his forehead against the open door, wipes the tears at the corner of his eyes, and listens to Iwaizumi’s grief reverberate through the gym, listens to the squeak of his shoes when he skids through the courts to run off his frustration, listens to him collapse and fall out of exhaustion, listens to his dark sobs echo; heartrending, like the cries of a lost child.

Tobio gives him his moment and then, later, when he goes in to help him put everything away, he pretends not to notice how red Iwaizumi’s eyes are.

*


	3. October 2020

*

“Again?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t look up and adjusts the lens instead. He presses the shutter release and there is a multitude of clicks, taking successive photographs of the action scene.

“Are you not happy to see me?” Iwaizumi says his voice teasing and syrupy and it’s so unlike him, Tobio snorts.

“Please don’t do that. Like, ever again.”

“Which basically means I’ll be repeating that as much as possible.” Iwaizumi parries back and then quickly swings to point the lens in Tobio’s face, “Now give me a smile.”

Tobio scowls on principle as Iwaizumi takes a photograph. “I don’t smile, Iwaizumi-san.”

Iwaizumi lowers his camera and gives him a pointed look. “Liar.”

“I don’t.”

“I have proof.”

Tobio pauses. “Wait, what?”

“I have proof,” Iwaizumi repeats, then balances the camera in one hand and digs into his pocket for his phone. He unlocks it and scrolls through the gallery with nifty fingers, and smiles triumphantly when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Told you,” Iwaizumi says, smug, and Tobio stares at the photo of himself, clutching a limited edition Mikasa volleyball, specially made for Worlds 2018. His lips are curved up softly and his eyes are shining, and it’s really, _really_ embarrassing, so Tobio makes a face.

“Why do you have that,” his voice is small, “And where is this from anyway?”

“I keep it so that I have proof that you _do_ smile.” Iwaizumi grins and pockets his phone, “I can’t believe you forgot your twentieth birthday.”

Tobio blinks and then he remembers.

“Oh,” the exclamation is a little more than a soft exhale, “Oh, right. The team gave me that.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi turns away to watch the courts, “It was Hinata’s idea. He wanted it to be perfect, so he dragged me around specialty stores and it was such a pain in the ass to find. You’d better be taking care of it, yeah?”

Tobio nods in affirmation; he has the volleyball tucked away in a box back in the Sendagaya apartment he shares with Nishinoya and a couple of other guys on the team.

“Good.” Iwaizumi says and then reaches out to affectionately ruffle Tobio’s hair, an old habit from Kitagawa Daiichi that’d endured through Tohokudai and past that too. Tobio squirms slightly but he doesn’t mind, not really.

They stand in silence then, watching the practice match going on below. Tobio wasn’t to participate, given that he’d broken his wrist a couple of months ago at the Olympics, when he’d screwed up getting a receive in the final against Brazil, and he was still recovering. Iwaizumi adjusts the depth of his lens and gets a particularly good shot of Bokuto in mid-jump, rearing for a straight spike.

“More shots for your portfolio?” Tobio asks and Iwaizumi hums, noncommittal.

“Something like that,”

“I thought you already had a lot of those?”

“Not the same, Kageyama,” Iwaizumi replies, but he doesn’t elaborate. Tobio lets him be and watches him work.

A whistle indicates the end of the last of the three sets and Iwaizumi tugs the lanyard of the camera over his head, then seats himself on bleachers. He calls over Tobio with a waggle of his fingers and Tobio sits next to him, then leans over to look at the photographs.

There’s a shot of the deciding point – the volleyball hitting the center of the court and the libero for the losing team is only inches away. Iwaizumi flips through the gallery backwards and Tobio catches a picture of more spikes and a particularly good one of a wipeout, the three blockers still in midair. There’s that picture of Bokuto’s spike again and Tobio tells him to use it somewhere. Iwaizumi stops at that picture of Tobio’s fierce scowl and laughs and Tobio loses the fight to delete the photograph, primarily because Iwaizumi is still capable of keeping him, a professional athlete, at bay with one hand.

Iwaizumi goes through the next succession of pictures quickly but Tobio doesn’t miss them – Oikawa setting the ball with utmost concentration, but it’s not an action shot; it’s zoomed in and centered on the expression on Oikawa’s face. In one of the pictures, Oikawa must have noticed the camera, so he looks directly into the lens and practically beams.

Iwaizumi pauses on his smile a second too long and Tobio watches the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth twitch, watches him work his throat, and he continues looking at the other shots.

Tobio purses his lips, not saying a word.

It’s not like he doesn’t know. It’d been an open secret in Kitagawa Daiichi and Tobio had noticed the way Iwaizumi’s eyes lingered at Oikawa for a little too long, seen the way his fist clenched when Oikawa was surrounded by hordes of girls, watched the frown on his face deepen that one time when Oikawa’s then-girlfriend went and planted a kiss square on his lips after they’d won a practice match.

Tobio isn’t the best with words but, at moments like these, he wishes he was.

“Got everything?” he asks instead. Iwaizumi blinks, then turns to Tobio with a faint upturn of his lips.

“Sure.” He says, turning off his camera, “Give me a minute to grab my equipment.”

Tobio nods and he watches Iwaizumi unscrew the lens and cap it, before carefully putting everything in the correct bags, double checking everything. Something about Iwaizumi indicated that he’d be too muscle-headed, too impatient, but it’s pretty much the opposite. He’s always careful and deliberate with the things he cares about, as evidenced by the way he handles the tools of his trade with delicate touches, covers the encased parts with a clean cloth before zipping up his bag.

He walks ahead and ropes in Tobio with absent talk about their next tournament. Somewhere, they begin talking about Iwaizumi’s next assignment, which was going to take him to Tasmania apparently, since Moniwa – Iwaizumi’s old classmate at Tohoukudai and Tobio remembers seeing him around the club at university, even though he’d stopped playing – wanted some assistance on a safari.

“Probably because you’d scare off the animals with your biceps, Iwaizumi-san,” Tobio says with a deliberate poke at said muscles, bulging through the t-shirt Iwaizumi had on.

In response, Iwaizumi laughs, loud and delighted, slapping away Tobio’s hand and reaching out to ruffle Tobio’s hair again.

“You’re so fucking cheeky,” he tells him, “Wanna come along so that you can scare them away with your scowl?”

“It’s not _that_ bad,”

“Kageyama, I have personally seen kids cry because you looked at them wrong.”

Tobio scowls and Iwaizumi laughs again, which automatically makes everything better. Iwaizumi has a nice laugh and Tobio never did like seeing him down. No one did.

“I am serious, by the way,” he says and Tobio looks up to see Iwaizumi watching him, “We have a spare ticket and… we do need some hand. Fresh air would do you some good.”

“But, the practices-”

“You’re benched for the next two weeks, yeah? Our flight is on Wednesday and we’re planning to stay for two, maybe three days. Take your off days and we’ll have you back in Tokyo in time.”

Tobio looks down at his shoes, considering. Before he can answer, there’s a smooth drawl from behind them and Oikawa walks up with a pleasant smile.

“Unfair, Iwa-chan,” he pouts, “Why don’t you ever take me on these things?”

Iwaizumi scoffs, neatly stepping away when Oikawa moves to lean an arm on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Yeah, like _you_ can handle nature.”

“I’m capable of handling _anything_.”

“You couldn’t last two days without a blow dryer.”

Tobio snorts and covers it with his hand. Iwaizumi catches his eye and gives him a small grin in return.

“ _Mean_ ,” Oikawa whines, then manages to hook his arm with Iwaizumi’s, deliberately placing himself between Tobio and Iwaizumi.

“Get off,” Iwaizumi growls and makes a half-hearted attempt to shake Oikawa off, “You’re all sweaty and it’s disgusting.”

Oikawa hums and he only smiles before he purposely tucks himself against Iwaizumi’s side.

“You’re incorrigible.” Iwaizumi says as he relents.

Oikawa’s tone is careless. “You love me.”

Tobio jolts and his eyes travel from Oikawa’s perfectly relaxed form to Iwaizumi’s slightly widened eyes, the way his composed expression flickers for a split-second. He drags himself out of Oikawa’s hold and, almost as if he’s practiced this, he replies flippantly, “You wish, Shittykawa.”

Before Oikawa can whine some more, Iwaizumi adjusts his camera bag on his shoulder and walks away without another word, his posture stiff, but not before telling Tobio to think about the trip. Tobio nods, even though Iwaizumi can’t see him and beside him, Oikawa frowns at Iwaizumi’s retreating back.

“What’s _his_ problem?” he grouses and Tobio can only turn to stare at Oikawa’s folded arms and the annoyance in his posture.

“I can’t believe you,” Tobio scoffs, voicing his thoughts without meaning to. Oikawa glares at him, opening his mouth to say something but Tobio turns away and jogs to catch up with Iwaizumi, having decided on an answer.

*


	4. December 2019

*

_It might have been difficult to ignore, given that they’d shared the same living space in Sendai, but_ _then Tobio had been recruited for the Men’s Under-23 team as their starting setter, right after his_ _twenty-second birthday – half a year ago – and then all the time in the world had been rendered_ _moot._

*

Tobio sits on their couch, reading and rereading the same message. He’s read it so many times, he can recite it, right down to the time of arrival and he can even write out the kanji of the sender written out at the bottom. He’s been sitting, rooted, on the couch, ever since the message had arrived in his inbox.

He’s not entirely sure how he wants to feel about it. Excitement and fulfillment, yes – because his lifelong dream of the world is right there, in the palm of his hands, articulated in six paragraphs of formal Japanese. And yet, there’s an uneasiness weighing him down, coiling and making a home in his chest.

Because he’s not thinking forward right now, like he ought to. He isn’t thinking about the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym, the National team practicing on the famed Orange Court. He isn’t thinking about Nishinoya’s Sendagaya apartment, shared with two others and the way he’d invited Tobio to share, with an excitable text message, only minutes after the first e-mail had arrived. He isn’t cataloguing his belongings for the inevitable move or telling his parents and his senpai the news.

He isn’t thinking about anything like that at all.

Instead, Tobio’s eyes are fixed on that small sized sports jacket – black, a bold red stripe on the each of the sides and spelling out _Tohokudai Volleyball Club_ in bright white kanji in the back, somewhat reminiscent of their Karasuno uniforms – laid out haphazardly on top of their kotatsu, despite Tobio’s repeated admonishments. A strange sense of guilt claws up his throat and it shouldn’t be like this, it really shouldn’t, because- because this is something Tobio has wanted ever since the first time someone had spiked his toss perfectly. This is something he’s dreamt of ever since he’d been admitted into Kitagawa Daiichi and his coaches had told him that he was a genius, that he had the potential to go far – that he could stand on the courts the longest.

Why, then, does he suddenly not care about grasping his dream when it’s right there, teasing at his fingertips?

There’s a clink of keys, someone jiggling their lock open. There’s a curse, a thunk when a boot meets the wood of the door. Out of habit, Tobio sits in place, giving the front door an eyeball, and he counts. He reaches to fifty when the door swings open and Shouyou stumbles in, kicking the door once more for good measure before he throws his bag to the side, toes off his shoes and begins shrugging out of his jacket.

“Fifty,” Tobio tells him and Shouyou just peels off one glove and pitches it at Tobio’s head.

“We need to get that lock fixed,” Shouyou says, as if they haven’t been repeating this to each other for the last three and a half years, and scowls when Tobio dodges the second glove too, “And you _could_ have opened the door like a normal person.”

“What and miss that show?” Tobio looks at him pointedly, tamping down on an amused smile when Shouyou scrunches his nose in annoyance.

“You’re such an asshole, Kageyama,” he tells him and then collapses next to him on the couch, as was usual. Shouyou’s head naturally falls onto Tobio’s lap and his lips are pursed in stubbornness when he looks up to meet Tobio’s eyes, almost as if daring him to protest. Tobio doesn’t, regardless of the fact that it makes him uncomfortable – he’s never done physical affection well. Besides, protesting would mean acknowledging things – things like the fact that something like this is supposed to make Tobio uncomfortable in the first place.

Because, well, they’re best friends – isn’t this what best friends do?

Shouyou keeps looking at Tobio, pointedly, which is when Tobio sighs.

“Welcome back.” He says, trying to sound less grudging and failing.

“I’m home,” Shouyou replies, reaching up to pull at Tobio’s cheek, “Why is it that you never say it till I tell you to?”

“Do I look like your girlfriend, idiot?” Tobio smacks his hand away, “Speaking of, what happened to Shimura? I thought you both were getting along well?”

Shouyou stiffens and averts his gaze from Tobio’s. He always gets like this when Tobio insinuates that he dates, that he’s had girlfriends. Tobio doesn’t understand why – because, it’s not like _Tobio_ is jealous. He’s never wanted to be in a relationship – that’s not how he is. Which is not to say that he’s never been in a physical relationship before – Tobio is not _that_ inexperienced – but he’s never wanted things to extend beyond a one night stand or a sloppy hand job in a dark corner of the room.

“It didn’t work out,” Shouyou tells him reluctantly, “We wanted different things.”

Which is bullshit as far as Tobio is concerned – because Shouyou is the one who is meant to be in a long term relationship; he’s the guy who gives all of himself when dating, he’s the one that girls never say a bad word about after they break up, because Shouyou is never dishonest about his intentions.

That’s another thing – Shouyou dates a _lot_. Tobio has seen this over the years, ever since high school. He can see why – Shouyou is bubbly, enthusiastic and downright impossible to hate and he lives and _breathes_ for human interaction. He’s the guy who makes friends wherever he goes. He’s the guy who always sees the best in everyone.

But that’s what Tobio doesn’t understand – the way Shouyou goes through girlfriends, Tobio doesn’t know _what_ he is looking for. The girls he dates don’t have anything in common, save for the fact that they’re okay with Shouyou’s obsession with volleyball. He wants to ask him sometimes, he wants to know, but Tobio never breathes the question. They tell each other everything – Shouyou is the one who knows every last thing about Tobio, which is more than anything Tobio allows for anyone else – but this, this is something Tobio never wants to touch.

He can’t quite explain why – call it a gut feeling, but he’s certain that this is forbidden.

“Is that right,” Tobio replies, taking care to keep his voice carefully neutral.

Shouyou turns back to look at him, his eyes scanning him like he can hear the unsaid things Tobio doesn’t voice. Hell, he probably can – he _does_ know Tobio better than anyone else – but he doesn’t call out Tobio on it.

Instead, Shouyou reaches one hand out and ruffles Tobio’s fringe softly. “How was _your_ day, Yamayama-kun?”

Tobio snorts at the nickname before wrapping his fingers around Shouyou’s wrist. He marvels at the way his wrist feels in Tobio’s hand – too small, delicate and Tobio sometimes feels like he’ll snap it cleanly if he applies too much pressure. Logically, he knows that Shouyou is nowhere near as dainty, but it still doesn’t keep him from thinking otherwise.

He withdraws Shouyou’s hand from his hair and rests it on Shouyou’s chest, and then he realizes _what_ was asked.

He freezes. Shouyou doesn’t miss it – he blinks up at Tobio and when Tobio doesn’t respond, he shakes off the grip on his hand. Then, he slowly reaches up to cup Tobio’s cheek, one thumb softly rubbing against the stubble that’s begun growing.

He’s suddenly hit with the urge to fling off Shouyou from him, growl at him to stop _touching_ him like Tobio is his fucking _girlfriend_ or something, because- because, _fuck_ , that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s exactly what Shouyou wants, doesn’t he?

 “Tobio?” he asks, concerned, his eyes wide and earnest and Tobio can see the flecks of gold in them. He looks, meets Shouyou’s eyes and- and this is nothing _new_. He’s never been afraid to meet Shouyou’s gaze before, but right now, he _is_. His body feels too hot, his heart is beating like he’s just run ten kilometers without stopping and he’s downright _terrified_ in this moment.

“The Under-23 team wants me as their starting member,” Tobio blurts instead, fixed and pinioned by Shouyou’s eyes and he wishes he wasn’t, because, he can see every last emotion flitting through them – shock, rapid blinks when Tobio’s words register, and then his forehead scrunches up in pain, in disappointment, but it is quickly covered up by excitement. He even manages a smile and Tobio’s not even looking at his lips but he can tell – because Shouyou always smiles with everything he has, even his eyes; _especially_ his eyes.

“Are you serious?!” he asks, jolting upright, but his hand never leaves Tobio; it only slides down the line of his neck and then rests at his nape, solid, like it belongs there or something.

Tobio doesn’t throw him off when he nods. He’s too shocked to, too weighed down by these new realizations.

“That’s-” Shouyou’s voice betrays him when it breaks a little, but he can still blame it on the excitement… except Tobio knows better, “That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!”

When Tobio doesn’t say anything else, Shouyou quiets, and seats himself beside Tobio so that their shoulders are pressed together. They sit there like that for long minutes, before Shouyou interrupts with a question.

“When?” he asks, voice sober and surprisingly level.

“I start in the middle of January.” Tobio replies, “But I’ll need to move earlier than that. To settle in, meet the team. Nishinoya-san said so.”

“Tokyo,” Shouyou says and it’s not a question.

“Tokyo.” Tobio repeats and swallows. “I haven’t said yes yet, you know.”

At that, Shouyou turns – Tobio can tell from the way the couch squeaks, can tell from the way he can literally _feel_ Shouyou’s stare against the side of his head.

Tobio clears his throat. “I can-”

“ _Don’t_.” Shouyou practically growls the word and when Tobio turns to look, he’s glaring at him, his hands – those small, fragile looking things that could work magic, if the world let him; that hit every one of Tobio’s tosses without a question – curl into fists. Tobio looks back, blinks, keeping his face perfectly neutral. Shouyou continues, spitting the sentence, “Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

“I haven’t even said anything.” Tobio shrugs, surprised by how easy it is to play dumb.

“Don’t act like I don’t know you,” Shouyou leans forward, baring his teeth, “Don’t act like you weren’t about to say,” and here he mimics Tobio’s gruff tone, too angry to do it justice, “ _I can refuse the offer_.”

Tobio swallows. Why is he ever surprised that Shouyou can read him this well?

“Why,” Shouyou asks, voice ragged, torn, “Why the fuck would you ever _refuse_?”

When Tobio answers, it’s instinctive – almost as if it’s been torn out of his throat without his volition. 

“Because they asked for _me_ , not for _us_.”

Shouyou sits back, collapsing against the back of the couch, his expression utterly stunned.

“What?” he croaks, disbelieving.

“It’s supposed to be _us_ , don’t you think I fucking know that?” Tobio tells him, his own hands curling into fists.

Belatedly, as he beholds the expression on Shouyou’s face; the way he’s _looking_ at him, like Tobio has said something utterly unprecedented – which, fuck, he _has_. But it’s not like Tobio doesn’t mean it – he _does_. Shouyou is his partner, someone who understands him inside and out, someone who is the perfect complement to his own prickly and permanently pissed off personality. Someone who is and always has given Tobio all of his trust on the court and, hell, even off of it.

“It’s your _dream_ ,” Shouyou tries, his voice strangled.

Which it is but, fuck, when had it morphed to include Shouyou?

It’s a stupid question, because Tobio already knows the answer – the first time he’d seen Shouyou at Karasuno, the first time they’d fought and competed and pushed each other to be better than the other, everything Tobio had ever known about himself had been permanently altered to include this orange-haired menace, this boy who shone like the goddamned sun.

And then, Tobio looks at the way Shouyou looks at him, notices the way he’s _always_ looked at him but Tobio has refused to acknowledge it. He feels weighed down by knowledge – like he’s crammed for a test too hard and his head _hurts_ with it. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want _any_ of this.

“It was my dream.” Tobio says anyway and he’s not even lying about this, because he doesn’t lie to Shouyou.

Shouyou stares. His eyes are wide and he’s blinking rapidly as he looks at Tobio, like he can’t quite believe that Tobio is real. And then, just as suddenly, his expression morphs to fury. He kneels on the couch and his hands – fingers that only _looked_ fragile and Tobio has felt them punch the breath out of his lungs – fist into the front of Tobio’s sweatshirt, pulling Tobio up to look Shouyou in the eye.

“Are you trying to spare my feelings?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous in a way that only Tobio knows, from years of experience, “Do you think I am that petty? Do you think I am that goddamned _cheap_ , you asshole?”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Tobio shoots back, watching as Shouyou’s expression falters a little, “I have never said anything to you that I did not mean.”

“You- you-” Shouyou chokes and he stares at Tobio, suddenly looking vulnerable and helpless and so, so fucking _small_ , Tobio wants to make him _stop_. But Tobio’s mouth doesn’t stop running – it’s like he’s suddenly compensating, now that he’s realized that Shouyou thinks the world of his words. Problem is, Tobio can’t give any of it back.

He only has his words to give, and those… he does.

“You belong up there,” he tells him and he watches Shouyou’s eyes widen further, watches him look at Tobio as if he’s his goddamned _salvation_ , “This much _I_ know, even if no one else does.”

“They don’t want me.” Shouyou says in a small voice, completely unlike his usual _loud_ presence and his grip on the sweatshirt slackens, but Shouyou just lets his knuckles rest against Tobio’s sternum. He swallows and his voice lowers further, a bare wisp of a thing, “You _know_ I’d never ask something like this of you. I’d never ask you to give _up,_ ”

“I know.” Tobio answers, because Shouyou is not petty, even if he has reason to be.

“ _Never_ ,” Shouyou stresses, the corners of his eyes crinkling in pain, “Never, because I-” he stops, his breath hitching, and he blinks before biting down on his lip, breaking eye contact abruptly. Tobio spots a flush running up his neck when Shouyou turns away and takes his hands back, and he curves his arms around himself, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Tobio suddenly feels immensely glad that the sentence remained unfinished.

Shouyou speaks again, his voice hoarse, “Do it. Please.”

Tobio stares. There’s a lump in his throat and he can’t utter a word.

“Because,” Shouyou continues, and he’s still not looking at Tobio, but Tobio finds that he can’t tear his eyes away, “You deserve it, all of it. You will be so wonderful up there, I _know_ you will be- so… so, please, Tobio. Please.”

Shouyou hunches, curls into himself further. Tobio doesn’t cry but he’s suddenly gripped with the urge to – because Shouyou has never lied to him about the important things either. He’s never said anything to him that he’s never fully believed in. And the way he looks right now, Tobio suddenly remembers their Karasuno banner – stark white calligraphy against the dark black cloth, urging them to _Fly_ – and he thinks about birds with broken wings, wings that led them to plummet back down to earth. Wings that couldn’t support the weight of too big dreams anymore.

Wings that were forcefully plucked out and now- now Tobio couldn’t do a thing, couldn’t glue the feathers back together. He could only watch as it struggled, wings torn, and suffocated slowly, painfully.

“Okay, I-” Tobio chokes out, something pained, “Okay.”

Shouyou looks at him, his eyes deep and fathomless, despite the fact that Shouyou doesn’t wear masks. Tobio doesn’t know what to say all of a sudden. Six and a half years of playing, living, _breathing_ together and he has nothing to offer to Shouyou. The way Shouyou meets his eyes, watches him with such aching sadness, Tobio can now see nothing but the way Shouyou is holding out his heart to Tobio, waiting for him to sit up and take notice.

Tobio is twenty-two. All he wants right now is within his reach. He doesn’t want his best friend’s heart but, paradoxically, he doesn’t want his favorite person on the planet sad either.

He loves Shouyou, yes, but he doesn’t _love_ Shouyou.

Tobio embodies the saying _ignorance is bliss_ , and he desperately wishes he was still ignorant.

“Aah, I-” Shouyou laughs now, mood suddenly turning upbeat, “I’ll have to throw you a party now, won’t I, hm?” He scratches the back of his head, making to get up from the couch, “Noya-san and Iwaizumi-san are in Tokyo… but I can call Aone-san. Daichi-san is in the city… which means that Asahi-san and Suga-san will be there too. Hitoka’s visiting her mother, so…”

Tobio watches him chatter, watches him make plans, watches him look away from Tobio. He moves past Tobio, still barely a head over Tobio’s seated form, and his eyes are fixed on the way Shouyou’s hands shake.

He’s not thinking when he catches Shouyou’s hand in his own. He’s not thinking when he makes to pull Shouyou into his arms. He’s not thinking when he’s holding his best friend close, when he’s pulling him into his chest, when he’s curving himself, trying to protect Shouyou – this small, indomitable spirit, beaten down by the world.

All he’s wishing for, in this moment, is the power to protect Shouyou from Tobio _himself_.

“Stop,” Shouyou says, practically _begs_ , and he weakly pushes away from Tobio’s chest, except Tobio is too strong, “I need- I need to go call everyone-”

Tobio doesn’t unfurl his arms from around him.

“Please let me _go_.” His voice is so raw, Tobio can’t help but hear more things in the simple plea.

Tobio grips harder, tighter and he thinks – he’s going to miss Shouyou. He’s going to miss their shitty apartment, he’s going to miss seeing his sunshine smiles lighting up dreary Sendai mornings, he’s going to miss Shouyou’s terrible attempts at cooking. He’s going to miss the way he looks when he hits one of Tobio’s tosses perfectly. He’s going to miss the way his spiking form looks – graceful, like a bird that is mid-flight.

But.

He’s not going to miss the way Shouyou looks at him sometimes, the way he is too open about how he feels about Tobio, the way he holds onto Tobio _right now_ – like Tobio is his lifeline in the midst of a typhoon.

And he’s certainly not going to miss the way Shouyou’s small body wracks with sobs, helpless and lost, almost child-like in its honesty.

Tobio plays volleyball – he sets, serves, receives, spikes; that’s what he _does_. That’s all he’s ever known, that’s all that’s ever given him fulfillment. He doesn’t know how to be more for someone else. He doesn’t _want_ to be more for someone else, not even for Shouyou – Shouyou, who’s given more of himself to Tobio than anyone else ever has.

 _I’m sorry_ , Tobio thinks as he holds Shouyou close and he presses his face into the hair, vibrant and tangerine, and inhales, praying that Shouyou can’t tell that he’s crying too.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious folk, [here is a gallery of the Tohoku University's Volleyball Club](https://volleyball-varsity.jimdo.com/%E5%86%99%E7%9C%9F/). The jacket was picked from the 20th picture of the second slideshow, and it does resemble Karasuno's jacket from the back somewhat! Not from the front though...


	5. October 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following up from Chapter 3 - October 2020.

*

_And, what is there to get? Tobio doesn’t date – that’s what he’d told Shouyou abruptly a couple of weeks ago, as Shouyou had set before him a plate of pork curry he’d just taken off the cooking range, and Shouyou wasn’t sure what he was saying, till Tobio was looking at him and repeating it, enunciating it in a way that meant that he wanted Shouyou to understand something._

*

“Oh my God,” Tobio coughs, slamming the stemmed glass down on the bar top, “This is _terrible_.”

Iwaizumi sets his own tumbler down and collapses in a fit of giggles. Tobio was tearing up, which was why he was only fifty percent sure that Iwaizumi was literally pointing at him and laughing.

“Your _face_ ,” Iwaizumi chokes out, patting down his jacket for his phone, “Do that _again_ ; I need to take a picture.”

“No.” Tobio vetoes, turning away, “You _know_ I rarely drink.”

“Look, that’s why I suggested a cocktail with milk in it.” Iwaizumi points out reasonably, one hand still buried in the pocket of his trousers, and he sloshes his whisky for emphasis, “It’s not like you can handle the good stuff.”

Tobio wrinkles his nose – he’s never been particularly good at handling his liquor beyond a bottle of beer or a single peg of the harder drinks, the latter of which he avoids because they’re so strong. He doesn’t have a relentless sweet tooth either so he can’t handle the sweeter cocktails too – something that Iwaizumi _knows_ , but he’d still innocently suggested that Tobio order a piña colada, and then insisted it be topped with extra pineapple syrup.

“You _know_ I don’t like too sweet drinks,” Tobio accuses, folding his arms petulantly. Iwaizumi only laughs and the flash going off indicates that he’s taking pictures with his phone.

“I’m not sitting in a bar, while _abroad_ , and asking the bartender to _please_ give me a glass of milk for my friend, because he can’t handle _adult drinks_ ,” Iwaizumi snorts, “I can’t believe how bad your accent is.”

Tobio scowls harder. “I’m working on that,”

“Yes, imagine that – Olympic Silver medalist, Kageyama Tobio, who’s been to multiple _International_ tournaments, can’t speak English properly.”

“I get nervous, alright?!” Tobio replies defensively and Iwaizumi just laughs obnoxiously.

“You’ve been studying English longer than me.”

“I’m bad at picking up languages and thinking about pronunciations gives me a headache!”

Iwaizumi angles his drink towards him, utterly unable to tamp down the amused smile on his face. “You’re such a volleyball idiot.”

Tobio scowls at Iwaizumi, but he doesn’t protest. Well, it’s not like he’s _wrong_.

“Good thing you’re a professional athlete then, no?”

Tobio shrugs. Iwaizumi nudges him with a foot playfully, and drains his whisky. He signals the bartender for a refill and sips this one slowly, savoring it. He snorts when Tobio pushes his piña colada away with a finger while pointedly glaring at it, and they lapse in silence.

Tobio consults his watch – still about an hour and a half to kill.

Their flight was at an ungodly 12:50 am and it was still only about 8:30 in the evening. Sightseeing at Melbourne _had_ been the plan, but then there was their day cruise from Devonport, Tasmania, which had taken a leisurely nine hours and left them with no time. Not that Tobio or Iwaizumi had cared, and neither had Iwaizumi’s friend – the ex-Datekou captain, Moniwa. In fact, Moniwa had already left for to shop around the Melbourne Airport, intent on covering all the stores in the International Terminal 2’s shopping center. Iwaizumi had dragged Tobio to the nearest bar instead and Tobio had gone willingly, since shopping has always been a terrifying ordeal for him.

Presently, Tobio absently watches Iwaizumi nurse his whisky. There’s a blonde girl by the corner table who keeps making doe eyes at Iwaizumi, regards him over her violently pink drink. Not that Tobio can blame her – Iwaizumi _is_ handsome.

The bartender rolls his eyes at the abandoned piña colada and Tobio bows a little in sheepish apology. The man nods his head in exasperation and then slides over a glass full of iced water, something that Tobio takes gratefully, stuttering out a quiet _thank you_.

He sips on his drink, considering Iwaizumi out of the corner of his eye. Naturally spiky hair that stayed almost artfully tousled, without the aid of hair gel even. There was the beginnings of a dark stubble in making on his strong, unapologetically masculine, jawline, only it was too hard to tell in the dimness of the airport bar. Too short eyebrows over too sharp eyes, laugh lines crinkling the corners and Tobio noted the faint bruises under his eyes, a result of far too many overnighters.

There was also his physique, carved to perfection – a result of a lifelong preoccupation with sports. Iwaizumi was naturally athletic and he could pick up any sport with utmost ease. Tobio remembers him dabbling in baseball and track in his off-time from the Tohokudai Volleyball Club, remembers him outshining even the regulars. Remembers their then captain, a Kobori Shougou, recruiting Tobio, Daichi and Aone to drag Iwaizumi away from the clubs who inevitably wanted to take him into their fold.

Iwaizumi puts down his tumbler and reaches into the pocket of his thin jacket, withdrawing a pack of smokes and a lighter. He first wordlessly proffers the packet at the bartender, who gives him a short nod of assent and places an ashtray in front of him, then he angles it at Tobio, who nods too. Iwaizumi gives him a quick smile, flipping open the carton, shaking loose one cigarette and tucking it at the corner of his mouth. His runs his thumb over the lighter’s wheel, pinches his lips and holds the flame at the tip of the cigarette with practiced ease, huffing out a thin stream of smoke once it’s lit.

He tucks the rest of the box in his pocket and takes a sip of his whisky, casual as you will. The girl by the corner table almost drops her drink when Iwaizumi presses his cigarette back to his lips to take a drag, the inside of his hand barely touching his mouth as he did so, and then inhales. Tobio doesn’t really know what she’s seeing, but he’s heard people go one about oral fixations and what not, so.

What he _does_ know is this – Iwaizumi’s undeniable strong forearms, corded with lithe muscles, and tan from their couple of days in the Tasmanian sun. They suddenly remind him of the fact that Iwaizumi had never lost an arm wrestling match, even in Tohokudai and not even against Aone, who was over a head taller than him and about twenty kilos heavier.

Tobio is filled by a quiet sense of awe all of a sudden – the way Iwaizumi looks so effortlessly cool and manly, always so solid and stable and always knowing exactly what he wants. He’s always been unafraid and unshakeable, a model to emulate for Tobio, and he can count on one hand, the times he’s seen Iwaizumi falter, doubt himself. When he looks at him sometimes, Tobio feels like he’s still thirteen and unsure, wide-eyed and confused about his place in the world, never mind that he’s living his dream right now.

Iwaizumi cocks his head in the direction of the corner table and notices the blonde. Unbidden, he smiles crookedly – dashingly – and the woman practically swoons. Tobio coughs to hide his laugh – it’s always been somewhat fascinating, the way Iwaizumi could sweep people off their feet without even trying. All he had to do was flash that smile of his, too boyish and endearing for a man of his stature, and everyone downright _melts_.

It makes him think of Tohokudai suddenly, when he watches the woman stride up to Iwaizumi, shoulders squared, and they sit there, exchanging words in whispered English.

He remembers Iwaizumi at parties, remembers there being interested girls _and_ boys. Remembers Iwaizumi giving himself to them with that same crooked smile, remembers those girls and boys being wide-eyed and floored. Except… except, even then, Tobio had felt bad for his temporary bed partners, because no one _really_ came close claiming all of Iwaizumi, not even those handful of people he’d dated over the years.

Tobio sips on his water and watches the blonde tuck a paper napkin inside Iwaizumi’s pocket, saying something in an undertone that Tobio can’t make out. He feels bad for this gorgeous Caucasian woman as she walks away from them, throwing a wink over her shoulder, because, well, it’s not like she knows that Iwaizumi’s heart has already been given away, years ago, even before Tobio had known him.

That makes him think of vivid tangerine hair suddenly, but the bright grin doesn’t accompany it – no, Tobio chokes on the image of a fragile smile and a shattered expression.

Even his water tastes like poison all of a sudden.

“Iwaizumi-san?” Tobio calls, hesitant.

Iwaizumi angles his head in his direction, tapping off the excess ash from his cigarette. “Hm?”

“I have to ask you something.” Tobio elaborates and Iwaizumi just tilts his head a touch further, mouth curving up in amusement.

“Okay?” he cocks an eyebrow, a little quizzical.

Tobio works his throat as he leans over the bar heavily. Out of his peripheral vision, he can feel Iwaizumi watch him patiently. When Tobio speaks, his words are a low mumble.

“It’s… it’s about Hinata.” He says and he can sense Iwaizumi stiffen. It’s as good as admission, Tobio thinks, so he continues, “Have you seen him recently?”

“And if I have?” Iwaizumi answers, his voice carefully neutral.

Tobio pauses, considers. The next words could make or break this, but he’s never been one for mincing his words, so he goes with his honesty. “Just wanted to know if he’s… okay.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything.

Tobio swallows and explains, “We haven’t been talking because I- I said some things…?”

Iwaizumi stays quiet, not uttering a word. Tobio cringes when the silence stretches too long, thinking about how many people Iwaizumi has been with, thinking about how many people Shouyou had dated. He thinks about the way Shouyou had looked when Tobio had blurted out those words, the way he’d visibly deflated under Tobio’s gaze, how he’d stayed entirely silent as he sat there, shoveling his food in his mouth and chewing mechanically.

“He’ll be fine.” Iwaizumi says finally and puts down his whisky on the bar top. Tobio nods, but he isn’t relieved, and he keeps regarding Iwaizumi out of the corner of his eye, looking away just as quickly.

“Kageyama, don’t look at me like that,” Iwaizumi sounds exasperated and Tobio flinches, despite himself.

“I- I’m not-”

“What are you expecting?” he asks, swinging on his stool to turn and face Tobio, “Do you seriously think I’m going to get angry at you for this?”

Which, in Tobio’s opinion, would be easier to deal with. He’s never liked disappointing Iwaizumi, after all.

“No…” he answers reluctantly.

“Then what?”

Tobio pinches the bridge of his nose between one thumb and index finger, his eyes falling shut and his face screwing up in pain.

“He- He’s never even _said_ anything,” Tobio spits through gritted teeth, “I don’t _want_ anything- I’m okay, just like this. What I have now, it’s enough.”

“Then what do you want from Hinata?” Iwaizumi asks, perfectly reasonable.

Tobio turns to blink at him. Iwaizumi sucks in one last drag from his cigarette and then grinds the spent filter into the ashtray.

“Think about it.” Iwaizumi prompts and takes a sip of his whisky, all while regarding Tobio.

Tobio obliges – it’s a valid point, after all.

He takes a bracing drink from his glass, almost swallowing down an ice cube in the process.

He thinks about what Miya had said after one of their practice sessions, after Shouyou had turned up to pick him up one too many times – _Are you a heartbreaker, Tobio-kun? I would’ve never taken you for one_. He thinks about that carefree tone masking the condescension, but also the ringing truth in them – because Miya may craft his words to hurt and provoke, but he never said anything that was false.

Thing is, Tobio is a simple man, he wants very few things. It was reflected in his nearly bare bedroom, only housing the important things – his clothes, his volleyballs, his training menu, a couple of free weights and a stack of volleyball magazines. This is all enough; it’s predictable, comfortable and Tobio is _content_. He gets to play for a living, he gets to spend time with his teammates, he gets to go out and let loose with his friends from college and high school and it was all good.

He doesn’t want anything more.

He doesn’t want anything less either.

“I just,” Tobio looks Iwaizumi in the eye, watches Iwaizumi blink back patiently, “I want what we had.”

“What you had?”

“Hina- _Shouyou_ is my best friend,” Tobio curls his fingers into fists, an edge of defiance sneaking into his voice, “He’s the one who knows me best, who’s stuck with me through everything. I’m not- I’m not in love with him… but I _do_ love him. And I want him back.”

His breath comes out in harsh exhales. Iwaizumi drains the last of his whisky and Tobio watches him throw his head back, watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. When he meets Tobio’s eyes again, Iwaizumi is smiling at him, almost proud, and Tobio feels like he’s said something right.

“Then tell him that.”

“But,” and here Tobio looks down at his hands now and unfurls his fingers, flexing them experimentally, “What if he doesn’t want to see me again? I did- I screwed up, I-”

Iwaizumi’s hand lands on his shoulder heavily, jolting him. Tobio looks up quickly, only to find Iwaizumi’s intense gaze fixed on him.

“You _didn’t_.” he says lowly, “Listen to me – I won’t sugarcoat shit and tell you that watching him like that wasn’t hard, because it _was_. But, fuck, do you seriously think that Hinata will blame you for something like this? Because he won’t and neither will I.”

Tobio blinks at him. His shoulders loosen involuntarily at that, because he hadn’t known that he’d needed to hear that.

“Is it okay if I don’t want it?” he asks, his voice small and pitiful.

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen in surprise before softening. His face takes on an expression Tobio can only label as melancholic and his fingers curl into Tobio’s shoulder, gripping him better.

“It is,” he tells him, before drawing back and sitting back on his bar stool properly, “I would never blame you for how you feel or don’t feel.”

He looks away then, motioning the bartender for a third refill. The bartender obliges, tipping a single peg of Starward’s single malt into the waiting tumbler. Tobio stares at the starburst patterns and dotted constellations on the smart [black label](https://blog.thewhiskyexchange.com/core/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/starward_fb.jpg) of the bottle, and he thinks about Oikawa all of a sudden – recalling that the wallpaper of Oikawa’s phone always veered towards breathtaking shots of deep space, things that made you feel incredibly small and insignificant in the face of their existence.

He wonders then, if those words Iwaizumi is telling him were also meant for Oikawa, on some level. He wonders if Iwaizumi had ever told Oikawa exactly that, some time.

Before he can open his mouth to say anything, Iwaizumi takes a deep swig from his glass, throwing the alcohol down his throat in one go. He slams the tumbler down and Tobio watches his fingers curl around the elaborately designed cut glass, too tight.

“Tell Hinata that,” he advises Tobio, all while staring down at the melting ice in his drained drink, “Tell him everything you just told me, because he needs to hear it. It’s important to him, it’s important that he knows all of this, because then he can learn to-”

Iwaizumi cuts himself off, swallows the rest of his words. Tobio half wants to prompt him, ask him what he was about to say, but he remains quiet. It feels like they’re not just talking about Shouyou anymore, and Iwaizumi’s personal feelings have always been something of a forbidden topic over the years, so Tobio just turns back to his own nearly emptied glass of water, staring down at it.

“He’s strong, you know.” Iwaizumi says after a couple of minutes of tense silence.

Tobio shakes his head in disagreement, because Shouyou hadn’t seemed strong when Tobio had bluntly told him that he didn’t date. He’d seemed smaller, duller, like Tobio’s words had sucked the spark right out of him, and Tobio had felt like the worst scum on the planet, watching the brightest person he’s ever known beaten down to a mere husk.

“He _is_ ,” Iwaizumi stresses, “He hasn’t let the world beat him down; what’s to say that you will manage to?”

Tobio whips his head to stare at Iwaizumi’s profile. The words tumble out even though he doesn’t mean them to.

“You think so?”

Iwaizumi angles his head at him and his grave façade drops away entirely, and he gives Tobio that same dashing, crooked grin.

“I _know_ so.”

Tobio’s mouth parts, a little bit in surprise and a little bit because he wants to say something to that. Instead, he smiles back and ends up nodding at Iwaizumi.

“He _is_ strong, isn’t he?”

Iwaizumi nods too and then his phone buzzes with a message.

“Well, _he’s_ finally done with his shopping,” he laughs, eyes scanning the screen, “Kaname wants to know if you want dinner.”

“Yes please,” Tobio says automatically and Iwaizumi snorts at how quickly he’s answered.

Iwaizumi starts feeling around for his wallet, quickly withdrawing it and paying for his drinks and Tobio’s. Tobio makes to protest but, like always, Iwaizumi just glares at him pointedly and Tobio relents.

“I’ll get you dinner then?” he offers, and Iwaizumi rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says, reaching for his luggage – a well-worn backpack and a top class camera bag – and shoulders them, “Whatever makes you happy.”

Tobio narrows his eyes at him, mildly exasperated, and Iwaizumi snorts again.

They walk through the busy airport, Iwaizumi on the phone with Moniwa, asking him where he is, while Tobio curls his fingers around the straps of his own backpack, watching the people mill about.

The walk to the restaurant Moniwa is in isn’t too long and they’re silent all the way. Right before they’re about to step into the restaurant though, Iwaizumi stops and turns to him.

“When we get back to Tokyo,” he starts, holding Tobio’s eyes meaningfully, “Promise me you’ll go see him.”

Tobio breaks eye contact and stares down at his sneakers.

“He’ll want to see you.” Iwaizumi continues, “And I want you to tell him all this. It’s for both your goods, yeah?”

Still looking at his shoes, Tobio nods in agreement.

“You promise then?”

Tobio nods again and looks up to meet Iwaizumi’s gaze again.

“I promise.”

Iwaizumi smiles and slaps his arm, hard, ignoring Tobio’s wince.

“Let’s go then,” he turns, smiling at the usher at the door, “I’m fucking starving.”

Tobio chuckles and watches him weave through the tables, making his way towards Moniwa’s dark head. Adjusting his backpack, Tobio follows.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon time! The National team features the following folks - Kageyama, Oikawa, Ushijima, Miya (as an all rounder, but mostly because I love the idea of Oikawa and Miya interacting), Bokuto, Nishinoya, Sakusa, Machida and Komori, amongst others. I wanted to write National team interactions, but that would mean writing Oikawa, which would _then_ mean that I'll break and try to resolve IwaOi in this fic. m(_ _)m
> 
>  
> 
> I just really like IwaOi, okay?!


	6. December 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before Chapter 4 - December 2019.

*

Hitoka sniffs into a tissue, her eyes red-rimmed and her nose equally colored. Tadashi hands her another tissue and Kei just fixes her with a mildly unsettled look, patting her head reluctantly. She reaches out, her small hands gripping tightly onto Tobio’s and Shouyou’s sweaty forearms.

“You were all _so good_!” she bawls, earnest as always.

Shouyou blinks and looks away.

“Thanks, Hitoka-chan,” he offers, tone unusually subdued, before lightly shaking off her hold and walking away. Kei frowns at his back and Tadashi juts his chin in his direction, and then hurriedly follows. Kei sighs, annoyed, before he looks at Tobio and nods.

“Good game.” He offers, soft and colorless, before following Tadashi. It’s almost like a formality, the way he says it, but Tobio’s learned better. It’s just how he and Kei are.

Hitoka’s eyes brim over as she watches Shouyou’s retreating back.

“Did I-” she starts, but Tobio is quick to cut her off.

“No, you didn’t.” he tells her, no nonsense, “He’s always like that after a match.”

Hitoka wrings her hands, frantic.

“I didn’t mean to.” She tells Tobio desperate and Tobio reaches out to squeeze her wrist in comfort, before quickly letting go.

“We all know.” He tells her, shouldering his gym bag and walking.

It takes her a while to settle and, by that time, Tobio’s already changed and they’ve already made their way to the 7-11 closest to the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym. Tobio’s refraining from outright scarfing down the hefty bento he’d picked up and Hitoka is taking polite little bites from her dinner. She has a train to catch and they’re waiting on Tadashi and Kei to turn up, since they were returning to Torono with her.

They’re both silent as the meal is consumed and Tobio offers to trash their empty containers. Hitoka rubs at her eyes before handing them over to him.

When he comes back to sit next to her on the bench, she speaks up in a soft voice.

“That’s it then?” she remarks and it’s not much, it’s nothing at _all_ , but Tobio bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming.

“Hm.” he grunts.

“You’re still going to be playing, Tobio-kun,” she says, hesitant.

“Yes.” He answers.

There’s a lull, the rush of the city the only noise between them.

Hitoka clears her throat and her voice shakes. “Fourth place is not that bad.”

Tobio’s seized by the urge to shake her, to tell her she is wrong, that fourth place _is_ bad, because only the winners matter – not just in the Inter Collegiate Nationals, but also otherwise. But he can’t do that, because he’s not thinking about their loss – he’s thinking about how he’ll have to give up his jersey and his status as Vice-Captain would need to be passed on.

He’s not thinking about the final set, the final score of 29-27 in favor of Tsukuba, but he _is_ thinking how horrified his Captain had looked when he’d been shut down, blocked out by three players, all of them standing at 190 centimeters and over.

He’s thinking about the interview he’s been invited to in the next week – called on by the board choosing the Under-23 Japan team – and how he hasn’t breathed a word of it to Shouyou.

“He’s not going to be playing anymore.” Tobio tells her, his fists clenching and Hitoka doesn’t have to ask to know that he’s talking about Shouyou. She just nods in understanding, patting one gloved hand against Tobio’s shoulder.

“I know.”

“They said they didn’t need him.” he hisses, anger boiling within him.

“They did.”

“They’re so fucking _wrong_.”

Hitoka doesn’t give him her usual admonishments at the profanity. Instead, she meets his gaze, her own eyes luminous with tears.

“They _are_.” She tells him.

“He _belongs_ there.” Tobio stresses.

“He does.” She nods.

Tobio presses his fists to his eyes and his voice breaks. “And I can’t do _anything_.”

Hitoka hiccups and her breath hitches as she begins crying in earnest.

“Y-You’ve done enough, Tobio-kun.”

Has he? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.

Tobio tucks her under his arm, despite the fact that he doesn’t know how to comfort people. But, well, they’ve all made exceptions for Hitoka time and again and Tobio is no different. Hitoka leans into him, sniffling, and, sitting in the middle of the city, they both mourn the ashes of Shouyou’s volleyball career.

*


	7. March 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening - [後悔と原動力 or "Regret and Driving Force"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDdljjsDOtc) From the Haikyuu S2 OST.

*****

_“Hinata,” he starts, still calm and so utterly reasonable, Shouyou fights down the urge to scream, “He’s never been mine to keep; I’ve always known that. And it’s not like he doesn’t know how I feel. He must. He’s my best friend, he knows me better than anyone else. I’m okay with letting him go.”_

_“Why?” Shouyou hates how he sounds, raw and wrecked._

_Iwaizumi exhales, deep and cleansing._

_“Because, despite everything, he always comes back to me.”_

*****

Tooru talks a lot when he gets excited.

Hajime watches him over his can of tea, watches him gesture elaborately as he extols the virtues of Chou University’s world class facilities, and Hajime is utterly hooked, unable to look away.

He’s suddenly seized by the urge to take a picture of him like this – practically glowing in the weak, early morning sunlight of this late March day, the dark brown locks of his hair peeking out from beneath the Prussian blue bobble hat Hajime’s mother had knitted for him as a farewell gift. He’s already mentally focusing in on Tooru’s lithe form – it would be the center of the photograph and the people milling around the Sendai station would be but mere smears, fuzzy and relegated to the background. He’d have to adjust the aperture for that – he’d read that at larger apertures, the background will be blurred.

Tooru smiles suddenly, small and honest – a rare sight – when he turns to unconsciously face the direction the Tohoku Shinkansen will take him, all the way to Tokyo. Hajime’s heart lurches at that smile, and he won’t compare it to missing a step on the staircase – it’s more akin to tripping into an endless abyss, falling and falling without stopping.

 _You’ll get over it_ , the practical part of his brain says and it’s been sounding less and less confident as the years go by.

Tooru changes the topic, rattling off the places he’d visit with Bokuto and Kuroo – acquaintances from the Nationals Camp in their second year of high school, when Tooru had been invited to attend, and they were also going to be present in Tokyo, both going to Chuo with Tooru – and he is excited in a way that small city boys would be. It’s as endearing as it is hilarious and normally, Hajime would’ve already made that remark, except he’s just silent and he’s trying to remember this, what Tooru looks like right now.

“And, they _did_ say that Skytree was overrated, but I’ve seen the pictures of the Tokyo skyline at night and it looks _amazing_.” Tooru sends him a quick cheeky grin, “I’ll send you photos, don’t feel too bad. Oikawa-san doesn’t forget his supporters.”

Hajime rolls his eyes in response, the most he can muster up at this time, and he briefly steps away to discard his drained can. Tooru looks away again, eyes straying towards the large clock hanging over the platform. Twenty minutes till the train arrives and Hajime feels panic rippling through his entire being, very aware that he’s not prepared for this.

Tooru quiets then, calm and tranquil. Hajime likes him best like this. Well, if he’s being honest, he likes him _best_ , period; but he likes this especially – Tooru, content and at ease with himself. Hajime can tell what he’s thinking – a side-effect of a lifetime of existing within the other’s gravity. Tooru is looking forward, upward. He’s thinking about how he’s another step closer to his dream, his purpose, and he’s thinking about the next step already.

Perhaps that’s what makes winners, Hajime thinks – this relentless hunger for more, their dissatisfaction with the ‘good enough’ and always striving for perfection instead. That’s not to say that Hajime lacks any of it, but he has begun doubting himself as of late.

Tooru addresses him but he doesn’t turn to look at him.

“Shame you didn’t get into any schools in Tokyo, Iwa-chan.” He says, voice subdued and even, “We could’ve gone together.”

Hajime keeps his posture casual, his tone neutral and he pointedly doesn’t think about the stack of offers from Tokai, Waseda and _especially_ not of the one from Chuo, all of them tucked away at the bottom of a shoebox and covered up with a framed award certificate. Funny how adept he’s become at lying to Tooru’s face about these things.

“Hm.” He shrugs, “You know I’d rather stay here. Mom worries.”

Tooru nods in understanding. Hajime swallows his sigh of relief.

“It’s not going to be the same without you.” Tooru admits, unusually candid. Hajime just nods, unable to speak all of a sudden. When he’s silent for too long, Tooru bumps Hajime’s shoulder with his own.

“You’re supposed to say it back.” He pouts, petulant, and, problem is, Hajime _wants_ to say it, except it’d probably sound too raw and honest for someone who pretended that he was just best friends with the boy next to him.

“Do I look like a cheese bucket to you?” Hajime deflects instead and Tooru scowls at him in return, folding his arms across his chest.

“This is why you’ll never get a girlfriend.” He tells him, “Girls like sensitivity, and considering that you have the sensitivity of a gorilla-”

Hajime kicks him and Tooru yelps, then jumps away from him. He’s hit him too hard – he can see the tears at the corner of his eyes – and Hajime wants to apologize immediately, but the mocking had hit too close to home, even though Tooru didn’t know it. Because, well, that’s the problem, isn’t it – Hajime _is_ sensitive, even if he keeps that part of himself buried and reserves it for when he’s regarding the world from behind the camera lens.

“See what I said?” Tooru whines, “You’re such a _brute_ , Iwa-chan,”

“Fuck off,” Hajime tosses back, and this is normal, the banter is _normal_ – Hajime has done this countless times – but he feels too exposed, feels like Tooru can almost see through all these lies he spews.

Tooru steps closer to him, close enough for their shoulders to press together, and then he drapes one arm over Hajime and leans till his head is resting on one shoulder. Hajime’s mind catalogs this too, but without his permission – how it felt to have him this close, how the blue bobble at the end of Tooru’s cap brushed against the side of Hajime’s neck.

“I _am_ going to miss you.” Tooru admits in a soft, private voice.

“Hm.” Hajime hums, glad that Tooru isn’t looking at him, watching his mouth distort as he clamps down on a sob.

“I want to shove you in my suitcase and take you with me to Tokyo.” Tooru tells him, a childish lilt sneaking into his tone.

“That’s kidnapping.” Hajime replies, turning to look down at Tooru’s head, his voice running a touch hoarse. Tooru looks up, his lips pushed out in a pout.

“What if I asked?”

“Do I look like I’d say yes to being shoved in a suitcase?”

“Well, you _are_ small enough to fit…”

Hajime taps his head in admonishment. “You’re such an asshole.”

“But, hey, you can’t refuse me!” Tooru whips his head up from Hajime’s shoulder to look at him indignantly, “I am the great Oikawa-san and no one-”

Despite the uncomfortable weight in his chest, Hajime laughs, right in Tooru’s face.

“When have I ever agreed with you?” Hajime points out as a part of their familiar song and dance, and he wonders if Tooru can see through this lie, right now.

Instead of whining like he ought to, Tooru straightens, draws himself to his full height and tugs on both of Hajime’s shoulders till they’re facing one another. His hands feel like solid weights where they’re clamped onto each of Hajime’s biceps, and Hajime is pinioned, fixed by that intense gaze Tooru’s directing at him, all traces of humor having vanished.

His voice is low when he speaks, and Hajime can barely hear him over the din.

“I didn’t ask because I presumed you’d come with me anyway.” Tooru tells him, pressing his face so close to Hajime’s, Hajime can feel every exhale on his skin, “You always have. So let me ask you now,”

Tooru’s eyes are blazing, focused, and his tone is serious when he utters the next words.

“Come with me to Tokyo, Hajime.”

Hajime is glad that Tooru is holding onto him because his knees feel weak, too weak to support his body. His heart beats too hard and Hajime is panicking, is _terrified_ – not because he wants to say no, but because he wants to say _yes_.

Here’s the thing – Hajime lies. He lies to Tooru just as much as Tooru lies to him, perhaps more. He lies to his best friend every single day, lies to him when he tells him that he looks ugly or stupid, lies to him when he calls him a dumbass and an idiot, lies to him when he tells him that he is the worst person on the planet.

He doesn’t lie about the important things though, things like how Hajime believes in him, how he believes in his skills, and he wishes he could lie to himself about other things, things he wishes he’d never noticed. Things like how beautiful Tooru looks, on the court, off of it, and even when he’s crying and getting snot all over the place. Things like how he’s seen every side of Tooru’s, good and bad, and he doesn’t think that any of them are ugly. Things like the way Hajime falls harder for him every single day, falls deeper and deeper into that abyss, and he’s so far down the hole at this point, the light that would guide him out is just a mere pinpoint now.

He’s known that it’s hopeless, ever since the first time Hajime had put a name to this feeling. He’s known it since the moment Tooru had laughed and ruffled his hair and told Hajime this: “Why would I ever go to Shiratorizawa? I’m going to Aoba Jousai with you, Iwa-chan, _obviously_.”

He’s known it since he was fifteen and he’d gone home that day, curled up in his bed, and he’d laughed. He’d laughed till he’d started crying, because he was happy and excited, but also sad and terrified.

Tooru makes him feel so many conflicting things, Hajime can’t even begin to untangle them and understand what is what.

Yes, Tooru hadn’t asked because he was right – Hajime would’ve gone with him anyway. And that’s what had happened – the scouts from Tokai and Waseda had offered him a place on their team and a couple of other schools from other prefectures had too. Tooru had said that he was going to where the best of the best gathered – to Chuo – and Hajime had automatically looked up their academic criteria, had decided to bring up his barely above average grades even higher. He’d studied, taken the exam and held his breath when the results had come in.

He’d been incredibly happy when his application to Chuo had been accepted and he’d almost told his parents, almost rushed out to show Tooru and tell him that they could go together.

But then, something had made him stop. That analytical and practical part of him, that part of him that kept him grounded, even when he was floating on a cloud, had asked him this – _what are you doing, Hajime_?

 Because, isn’t that just it? What was he doing, why was he following his best friend to an unknown city? What was this exercise going to bring for him except more heartbreak? He’d stared at the letter in his hand, stared at it and realized that Chuo didn’t even have the sports science course he wanted to take.

It scared him then because he was willing to go despite it – he was willing to blindly throw away his future if it meant that he could have Tooru in some capacity. He was so far gone, so fucking deep into this… _thing_ , he couldn’t tell up from down, left from right, right from wrong. He’d do anything for Tooru, he’d realized in that moment. He’d brave anything – he’d make his way to a place where he knew no one, he’d study a course that he didn’t even like, he’d play volleyball even though he won’t make the first string.

He’d do it, he’d do it all, just for Tooru. He’d do it to keep Tooru for a while longer, he’d do it to watch him smile, laugh, cry, _anything_.

He was so madly in love, he’d give this boy everything of his, even if he’d get nothing in return.

And that _terrified_ Hajime.

The sheer enormity of these feelings bubbling inside of him, feelings that had been steadily growing since the time they’d met perhaps, Hajime didn’t know how to handle them. He felt helpless in the face of them, primarily because they’d bring him nothing, but also because they’d taken up so much of him, Hajime had come to define himself in terms of them.

He stares back at Tooru, looks into those eyes, meets that determined gaze, and his defenses fall, unbidden. He doesn’t know what Tooru can see in his face, what he understands by the way Hajime’s eyes are opened wide, the way Hajime’s trying to curl up into himself but failing, the way he’s literally _shaking_ under Tooru’s grip. Hajime half wants him to read everything Hajime’s trying to tell him with this weighted silence, half wants him to know just how badly Tooru scares him, just how deeply Hajime loves him, just how much of Hajime he has and, worse, will have, probably for the rest of their lives.

 _Who am I without you_ , Hajime lets the question flash in his eyes as he looks at Tooru’s mouth parting in surprise, _I don’t know who I am without you. I don’t **want** to know who I am without you._

And he doesn’t – he wants to hold on to these hopeless feelings because he’s never known anything different. He wants to love Tooru, like this, because- because that’s all he’s ever done. That’s who Hajime _is_.

He looks away when he realizes that he’s crying, that he’s shaking so hard from the weight of his emotions, he can’t keep Tooru from seeing him like this. He can’t even run because his knees are weak and Tooru, Tooru is his support, his foundation in this moment.

“Hajime?” Tooru calls but Hajime can’t turn back and look at him. He’s not capable of lying right now.

“Hajime,” Tooru repeats, his breath hitching, indicating the start of tears, “Oh _Hajime_ ,”

And then Tooru is pulling him in his arms, pressing Hajime’s wet face in his nape and running a large hand up and down Hajime’s back, soothing, even though he’s crying too.

Hajime hugs back, clutches tightly onto Tooru’s jacket, right where his shoulder blades should be. He thinks about how some people believe that shoulder blades are proof that humans used to be capable of flight. He thinks about it and he’s seized with the urge to rip out these massive wings Tooru has, wants to pluck out every last feather, so that he’s grounded and can’t ever fly away from him.

But that’s the thing – Hajime is the boy who’d catch cicadas in jars, intent on keeping them, but he’d let them go at the end of the day because he pitied them for their short lives. How could he _ever_ do that to Tooru?

“Y-You’ll be fine.” Hajime hiccups, presses the words into Tooru’s skin, hoping that they stayed there, branded into him, “You’ll have Kuroo and Bokuto and they sound like pretty good guys and you’ll do _great_. You’ll be great out there, you know. I believe in you and you- Tooru, you don’t _need_ me, okay-”

“Come with me to Tokyo,” Tooru says again, brokenly, cutting off Hajime.

Hajime leans back and away from Tooru’s embrace to look at his face. He bites the inside of his cheek as he looks, because he loves this boy before him, always has. Tooru looks back at him, pleading and a little scared, but Hajime just cups Tooru’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that are leaking from the corners of his eyes.

And, because he wants to tell Tooru _I’d follow you to the ends of the earth_ – because it’s true; because, even as children, Hajime has followed him everywhere: into the deep woods, into volleyball, into middle school, high school and almost to university too – that’s why Hajime says this instead:

“I can’t, Tooru.”

Fresh tears run down Tooru’s face and Hajime leans forward, impulsive, and presses a soft kiss to Tooru’s forehead. It’s the closest he’d ever come to a confession, he thinks.

Tooru looks at him, shocked – because Hajime is never openly affectionate, not if he can help it. It’d become too easy to blur the lines if he did.

“You will be nothing less than perfect because that’s who you _are_. Remember that, okay?” Hajime says, honest, because he’s never lied to Tooru about the important things. Then, he makes to step away, wiping down his eyes with a sleeve and turning to look at the clock, “It’s almost time for your train.”

Tooru nods, complacent, and they gather his luggage.

Their walk to the train is silent, the chatter and bustle of the station fills the quiet space between them. Hajime is okay with that as he hauls Tooru’s backpack and the bulky care package Hajime’s mother had sent for him. They load the luggage onto the Shinkansen once Tooru’s checked up his coach number and, once everything is on the train, Hajime steps out on to the platform.

Tooru doesn’t move from where he’s standing amongst his belongings.

“Go take your seat, okay?” Hajime prompts him, but Tooru just reaches out to clasp his wrist.

“Promise me you’ll call me.” He all but begs.

“Tooru,” Hajime doesn’t know what he wants to say, but the way he says Tooru’s name, small and pleading, that talks for him.

“Promise me you’ll message me.” Tooru stresses, “Promise me you’ll keep in touch,”

“Tooru, please,” Hajime wants to pull himself away from Tooru, but he can’t quite manage.

“You’re my _best friend_ ,” Tooru tells him, “You’re my Iwa-chan.”

An announcement sounds, telling them that the train will be departing in two minutes.

“Is that all I am to you?” Hajime blurts and then immediately wants to shove the words back in his throat, because- _what is he doing_?

Tooru looks back at him, confused and a little helpless.

“That’s all you’ve ever been to me,” he says, his eyes wide and looking bewildered, “How can you be anything else?”

Hajime stares at him, holds Tooru’s eyes. The chocolate of them reminds him of summers, of the cicadas. Hajime had caught them and then let them go, yes, but he’d secretly hoped that they’d remember him and come back.

He hopes Tooru will do the same.

Hajime nods, rubs his eyes then. He raises his wrist, brings it close to his mouth and brushes his lips against Tooru’s knuckles – that perfect, pale hand; those beautiful fingers that could work magic on the court – and he’s not lying about anything, not in this moment.

He looks up and Tooru is staring at him, his expression unfathomable and his eyes wet.

Hajime smiles and here, here he lies.

“I’ll keep in touch.”

“Hajime,” Tooru calls, his voice raw.

“The train is going to leave.” Hajime says, stepping away and pulling his hand from Tooru’s grip.

“You didn’t promise me,” Tooru tells him.

“I promise.” Hajime replies and smiles again to cover up this lie, “Remember to call your parents when you reach.”

“Come visit me, okay?” Tooru says in a rush, “I was lying about the Skytree; I won’t go see it without you.”

“You will.” Hajime replies, his smile turning too fond, too _honest_.

“I won’t see the skyline at night without you.” Tooru urges, “Come see me. I want you to meet Kuroo and Bokuto. I want you to meet my teammates. I want you to see Tokyo with me.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“ _Please_ , Hajime.”

Hajime’s smile turns wider, cracks and breaks faster. “Goodbye, Tooru.”

“I’ll miss you.” Tooru tears up.

Hajime doesn’t say it back; he only nods.

“Don’t forget about me,” Tooru warbles, desperate and insecure.

When Hajime laughs, it’s something broken, honest, and so, _so_ loving.

“Tooru,” he shakes his head, looking up to meet Tooru’s bright eyes with his own bright smile, tender in ways that Hajime can’t actually be, “How could I ever forget about you?”

Tooru shakes when he cries and the doors of the train slide shut, readying for departure. Hajime watches him press his face against the narrow window, waving frantically and mouthing Hajime’s name repeatedly. Hajime raises one hand in farewell, doing exactly nothing to stop the tears rolling down his own face.

 _Fly_ , he mouths back and hopes that Tooru understands him.

The train begins pulling away. Hajime watches the Tooru through the glass, watches him quiet and watch Hajime back as Hajime keeps pace with the train. The train speeds up and there is a moment when Hajime wants to speed up with it, to run alongside it and to have the power to take Tooru back from it.

Instead, Hajime reaches the end of the platform and watches it go – southward bound to Tokyo and taking away Hajime’s entire heart with it.

Here, he doesn’t lie. Here, he lets his façade crumple, lets his tears flow, lets himself cry and he mourns the end of an era. He mourns his hopeless love, this stupid heart of his that never learned to stay put, that never learned how to stop. He mourns this piece of himself, forever given away and leaving Hajime incomplete, and he thinks – he should start learning how to live like this.

“I love you so much, Tooru,” he tells the thin air, the long departed train. He rents the words from his throat and lets them hang in the air, exhaled in a fog into the cold Sendai morning. He watches the white puff dissipate quickly and almost laughs at how quickly it vanishes – these words, held close to his heart for years on end and uttered for the first and last time.

Hajime walks out of the Sendai station, hands tucked in his pockets, and he wanders the city, too lost to find his way home. He ends up at the Osaki Hachiman shrine sometime around noon, the greenery calming him and the cherry blossoms still in full bloom. He watches the delicate flowers, thinks about impermanence and _mono no aware_. He thinks about the transience of life and wonders if this thing he’s felt for Tooru – for _years_ and long before he could properly understand it – is this transient too?

He hopes so.

And yet, despite that, Hajime tosses the change in his pockets into the collection box and pulls the rope to ring the bell. He bows twice, presses his palms together and, as hard as he can, he prays to whatever higher power is looking down at him right now.

 _Please bring him back to me_ , he begs, _That’s all I ask._

A clap, another bow, and Hajime wipes away the last of his tears.

He makes his way home but, before leaving, he takes a picture of the cherry blossoms, and he marvels the ephemeral beauty of them before they shriveled up and faded away, along with the month of March.

*

_But if you come to a road where danger_

_Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share,_

_Be good to the lad that loves you true_

_And the soul that was born to die for you,_

_And whistle and I'll be there._

\- More Poems, A.E. Housman, XXX

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, ouch. This one hurt a lot and I made myself cry when I wrote this. I'm sorry I keep hurting you, Iwaizumi! I do it because I love to see you come out stronger! o(TヘTo)


	8. July 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set directly after the previous chapter.

*

The first thing he registers is his pounding head.

The next is that he’s in his own room, though how he got back is a mystery.

“Finally awake then?” a low voice rumbles and Hajime screws up his face, tucking himself back under his blanket.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice scratchy, and his throat hurts, like he’s screamed too much.

“How much do you remember?” Sawamura asks and the noises indicate that he’s going through Hajime’s makeshift kitchen area, presumably looking for his cups.

Hajime thinks about the night before and draws a complete blank. He remembers returning from practice with Sawamura. They’d met up with Moniwa, and Moniwa had invited them to some party his old teammates, Kamasaki and Sasaya, were throwing, and Hajime had been about to refuse, but then his phone had buzzed with a message and-

“Fuck,” he throws off his blankets and squints against the bright sunlight, streaming through his window, and he turns his face towards where he presumed Sawamura was, “What did I do?”

“Do you remember anything at all?” Sawamura steps closer and he thrusts a cup in Hajime’s hand. A sip of green tea, warm and cleansing, wakes up Hajime a little more.

“We went to that party,” he says, cradling the cup and giving Sawamura an approximation of a grateful look before continuing, “I remember getting into a drinking contest with Moniwa’s friend…”

“Kamasaki, yes,” Sawamura nods, looking vaguely proud, “You won, by the way. He wants to know when you can come again… at least that’s what I think he messaged me this morning. It was hard to read with the misspelled words.”

“Preferably _never_ ,” Hajime grunts, “Considering my raging headache and also the fact that I can remember fuck all from last night.”

“Hm.” Sawamura cocks his head just the slightest bit away, “So nothing after the drinking contest?”

Hajime wracks his brain a little more, despite the fact that it hurts to think. He’s not sure _how_ many beers he’d chugged down, but it must have been some obscene amount, given that there are chunks of his memory that are outright missing. He remembers gloating over Kamasaki’s collapsed form, remembers Moniwa laughing harder than Hajime had ever seen him, but he doesn’t remember what came next.

“No.” he tells Sawamura, taking a gulp of his tea.

Sawamura nods then, looking off to the side. Hajime hasn’t known him long enough, but he can read the discomfort radiating from him.

“Okay,” Hajime starts cautiously, “How bad was it?”

“Do you always try to get into fights when you drink that much?”

Hajime stares at him. Sawamura flexes his fingers and glances back at Hajime.

“Did I…?” he asks and Sawamura nods his dissent.

“No, Sasaya and I held you back though,” he shrugs like it was no big deal, “But I’m pretty sure that every tall, brown haired guy at the party wanted to punch you in the face.”

“Fuck,” Hajime exhales, horrified, “I’m so sorry; I swear I’m not like that-”

“I should hope so.” Sawamura says, trying to sound amused and failing.

“I’m really, really sorry.” Hajime apologizes, mortified.

“It’s not a big deal.” Sawamura waves him off and gets up to leave for his room. Hajime stares down at his cooling tea, biting down on his bottom lip. What the fuck had he done last night? Worse, what had he _said_ last night?

Hajime feels scared and exposed all of a sudden. He doesn’t like to show this to everyone. He isn’t good at being honest about the things he kept caged inside his chest.

Sawamura pops back into Hajime’s room after a minute, carrying a bag from their campus’ 7-11 and he drops it on Hajime’s futon. Hajime stares up at him, bewildered.

“Eat.” He orders bluntly, “I’ll sit here till you finish that.”

Sawamura _does_ sit there – he drops down on the floor next to Hajime’s futon and sits, cross-legged, giving Hajime a pointed look. Hajime turns his head down to regard the pork fried rice bento set and he quietly obliges, breaking apart the chopsticks and preceding his breakfast with a quiet little _thanks for the meal_.

It hurts when he swallows down his first bite. He’s not sure why his throat feels so sore, but he sips on his tea anyway. Sawamura eyes the emptied cup and automatically gets up to retrieve a flask on Hajime’s desk, then tops up Hajime’s cup with more of that warm tea.

Before Hajime can make to thank him, Sawamura looks at him for a long moment.

“Iwaizumi,” he says finally, then swallows and continues when Hajime meets his eyes questioningly, “Would you say we are friends?”

Hajime blinks. He thinks back to the three months they’ve known each other, latching onto each other since orientation, both due to the proximity of their rooms and a mutual interest in university level volleyball. He thinks of meals shared, of the volleyballs tossed between them, of lounging about in each other’s dorm rooms on lazy days. He tamps down on a joke he wants to make – _Do you regularly take care of people with raging hangovers when they’re not your friends? Just how much of a saint are you, Sawamura?_ – Because, the way Sawamura regards him, it’s more serious than he’s ever seen him.

Hajime goes with bald honesty. “Absolutely.”

Sawamura smiles – a quick flash of teeth – before he sobers again. “And what about you and Moniwa?”

Hajime doesn’t know why he’s asking that but, well, there’s an urgent look in his eyes and Hajime has no idea why his answer might be that important. Still, he thinks about Moniwa – about shared classes and shared interests, about regularly swiping his notes, about him occasionally setting for Hajime despite having eschewed playing at university. He thinks about that time they’d dragged an unwilling Sawamura to the Sendai Castle ruins and competed over who could take the most ridiculous photograph of his.

“He’s my friend.” Hajime answers, suddenly recalling that he still hadn’t returned fisheye lens Moniwa had loaned him, “You’re both my friends.”

Sawamura nods, a small smile on his face, but it soon fades away, leaving only the graveness there.

“Then, as your friend, let me tell you this, Iwaizumi,” he looks straight into his eye, utterly serious, “You really scared us both last night.”

“I’m sorry,” Hajime replies, automatically and a touch helplessly.

“It’s not about getting into fights.” Sawamura tells him, running a quick hand through his hair when he looks down at Hajime’s still full bento, “I _wish_ this was about you getting into fights. But, you know what – we’ve been out drinking a couple of times with the team and I’ve seen you have one too many. Never blackout drunk like yesterday, obviously, but you’re not the kind of guy gets into fights without a reason.”

Hajime stares at him, watches the way he looks with his handsome face screwed up in mild distress. He spots the scrunch of his nose, his turned down lips, the furrowed brow.

“What else did I do?” he asks Sawamura, urgent and a little desperate.

Sawamura looks up at him and his eyes are pained.

 _Oh God, no,_ Hajime thinks, dread trickling into his veins and weighing down his limbs.

“Moniwa and I volunteered to take you back,” Sawamura relates, matter of fact, and he carefully sets aside Hajime’s bento, his cup and pulls out the chopsticks from his suddenly limp fingers, “You could barely walk or talk, but, well, you still wanted to make a call.”

 _Please, no_ , Hajime fights the urge to cover his ears and hide under his blanket.

“Well, at least you couldn’t tell which phone was whose, so Moniwa gave you his phone and you said-”

 _Moniwa, how the fuck do you have Tooru’s number,_ Hajime dimly remembers slurring and he can only watch as Sawamura’s enunciation of his words superimpose themselves over his own hazy memory.

“You didn’t bother dialing,” Sawamura says, looking at Hajime with that gaze, so full of _pity_ , Hajime wants to shove a pillow in his face to make him _stop_ , “You pretended that you had though. You said that you were happy for him. You said that she looks really pretty and that she sounds like a nice person. You said that he should hold on to his new girlfriend. And then…”

Hajime stares. He doesn’t know exactly what he said, but he has an inkling from the way Sawamura looks, all sad and melancholic. Did he say that he missed him? Did he ask him why he never chose Hajime? Did he cry that he loved him, that he loved him so hard, so deep, that he ached with it? Did he tell him that he loved him, even when he knows he’s not supposed to?

It could be everything and nothing; it could be anything at all. But, Hajime thinks, this fact remained – he’d showed this soft underbelly of his, the same one that was supposed to stay hidden in the depths of his soul.

“I’m sorry,” Hajime says wetly, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Iwaizumi,” Sawamura’s gaze turns hard in a way Hajime had come to recognize as admonishing, “I don’t want a fucking apology from you.”

Hajime blinks at him and, if he was his normal self – not this pitiful little shell of a broken person – he’d have marveled at the usage of the bad word, because Sawamura _never_ cursed.

Sawamura leans forward then and grips Hajime’s shoulders, tight and urgent. He tilts his head to hold Hajime’s eyes, pins him in place.

“You terrified us.” He says, his voice low and dark, “Do you know how hard it was to watch you – _you_ , of all people – cry like that? You just… _crumpled_ and, thank God you passed out soon enough; we weren’t sure _what_ to do-”

“Shit, Sawamura,” Hajime croaks, “I’m so fucking so-”

“Stop _saying_ that!” Sawamura snaps back, quick and loud, and Hajime shuts his mouth immediately. Sawamura shakes him involuntarily, his voice a little quieter, “Stop saying that, please; we heard enough of it last night, the way you kept saying it into the damned _phone_ -”

Sawamura stops himself, his voice breaking near the end, and he abruptly looks away from Hajime. Steady, deep inhales to compose himself – Hajime recognizes this from when Sawamura does his best to keep himself from snapping at their senpai, when said senpai fail to go all out on a receive. Hajime can only stare, sure that his eyes are too large in his face and there is a definite shine to them too.

Sawamura looks back and his gaze burns with a determination.

“ _Never_ apologize to us for how you feel,” Sawamura tells him, his tone pitched low with seriousness, “ _Never_ , okay? We would never blame you for how you feel. _No one_ has the right to blame you for how you feel, Iwaizumi.”

Hajime gapes. Sawamura keeps looking into his eyes, almost like he wishes to burn this knowledge into Hajime’s brain. And, well, he _does_ – because something inside Hajime breaks and he exhales in a shudder, shutting his eyes against the tears that were threatening to spill over. He hadn’t known he’d needed to hear those words, he hadn’t known at all.

“So-” Hajime’s voice catches on a hiccup as he opens his eyes the slightest bit to regard Sawamura’s blurry outline, “So, is it okay for me to…?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, primarily because Hajime doesn’t know how to. Is it okay for him to love this hard? Is it okay to persist with it, despite its fruitlessness? Is it okay for him to hurt, even though it’s a result of his own foolishness?

Sawamura nods once, decisive, and it’s answer enough.

He squeezes Hajime’s shoulder, then lets him go. He thrusts the cup of lukewarm tea in Hajime’s hand and waits patiently, not commenting when Hajime presses the heels of his palm to his eyes briefly. Hajime takes a gracious gulp of the tea, swallowing it down. Sawamura hands him the bento then, and watches Hajime pick up a bite of rice in his chopsticks. Once he’s assured that Hajime is eating, he sits back in his original position.

“Hey,” he calls and Hajime looks up, “If you want to talk, we’re here, alright?”

Perhaps Hajime looks dumbstruck, for Sawamura’s determined look softens to a fond smile. “Both of us, Moniwa and I. We’ll be here to listen.” The smile turns to a grin, then, “We’re your friends after all.”

Hajime knocks Sawamura’s shoulder with a fist, his voice cracking despite the smile he’s wearing. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a sap, Sawamura?”

Sawamura shrugs. “Drop the Sawamura, okay? I much prefer Daichi anyway.”

“Then,” Hajime points at him with his chopsticks, “Call me Hajime.”

Sawamura grins, unabashed. It soon turns a touch devious and he actually waggles his eyebrows, earning a snort from Hajime.

“You know, Hajime,” he remarks, “Moniwa is going to kill us for missing this friendly, ‘breaking the barriers’ session of ours.”

“How about we just start dropping a ‘Kaname’ on him the next time we see him?”

At that, Sawamura starts laughing so hard, Hajime joins in despite himself.

*

_(“Tooruuuu! You told me to call, so I’m calling. Sorry I haven’t been calling more often, I'm not ignoring you… it’s just- just really, really busy here. Saw the picture, you know. She’s pretty… tall… she’ll suit you. She sounds nice too… you both make a great looking pair. Hold on to this one, yeah? You look really happy. She- she makes you happy, hm? That’s good. That’s good for you, Tooru. I’m happy that you’re happy. I-_

_No- no, wait, I- I’m the worst friend on the planet. I don’t- I don’t want you to be with her, alright? I’m sorry. I can’t- Tooru, fuck- It hurts. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry- I can’t stop. I know I’m supposed to. I know that. But- but I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I lov- No- no, I can’t say that. I’m sorry, it just- it just hurts **so** **much**. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tooru, I’m sorry. I’m so-”)_

*


	9. April 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set just before Chapter 2 - December 2017.

“Cooldown laps, team!” Hajime shouts, earning multiple yells of assent in return. He grins, even though none of them can actually see him, and then starts in on his own stretching exercises.

Daichi returns after just one measly lap – the bastard knows that he should set an example, but he often shirks such responsibility – and then grins cheekily at Hajime, knowing that Hajime couldn’t _actually_ rail on his Vice-Captain in front of the team.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the responsible guy, Daichi?” he says as he is holding one foot behind him, stretching it out.

Daichi joins him in stretching, imitating Hajime’s pose. “Yeah, responsible Daichi is taking a day off.”

“He’s _always_ taking a day off,” Hajime rolls his eyes, even though it’s a lie. Somehow, Daichi’s responsibility shirking was limited to extra laps.

“Excuse me, who submitted those requests for practice matches with Tokai and Tsukuba yesterday?”

“You did.” Hajime replies grudgingly and lets go of his foot, only to repeat the action on his other foot.

Daichi grins. “Aren’t I a responsible Vice-Captain then?”

Hajime frowns at him and Daichi’s grin only widens.

“Speaking of,” Hajime says, as he always does when they talk about their new roles within the team, “I can’t believe you actually convinced the coach to make me captain.”

“Didn’t have to do much convincing, honestly,” Daichi shrugs, wearing an air of smugness, “He was going to make you captain _anyway_ , I just told him I’d much rather be the Vice-Captain. Or just another regular, that was okay too.”

“You should’ve been captain.” Hajime tells him, and he means it.

Daichi though, he makes a face.

“What?” Hajime lets go of his leg, now moving to stretch his arms, “You already have the experience,” And it’s true – Daichi was made captain in both middle school _and_ high school, after all.

“Are you kidding me?” Daichi scoffs, “Like I’m doing that again. The last time I was made captain, I felt like I was fathering nine unruly children with Suga.”

Hajime cocks an eyebrow, “Then what was Azumane?”

“Asahi?” Daichi thinks for a moment, “He was probably the pet.”

Hajime chokes on laughter despite himself. “What the fuck, Daichi,”

Daichi shrugs. “Hey, it’s true. You’ve met him. He’s like one of those really scary looking German Shepards who are just cowards at heart.”

“He was your fucking ace.”

“He is also my friend and a scaredy cat.”

Hajime laughs. “You’re _awful_.”

“I tell it like it is.”

“Yeah?” Hajime cocks an eyebrow, abandoning his stretches to fold both his arms across his chest, “Then what do you say behind my back, huh?”

“Won’t be behind your back if I say it to your face, hm?” Daichi replies reasonably and Hajime gives him a look of mock exasperation, “Alright, alright… so I may have made comments about your motherly disposition.”

“Okay, one – _you_ of all people shouldn’t talk to me about mothering anyone,” Daichi gives him a sardonic look, one that Hajime ignores, “And two – what do you call Kaname then? Considering that he mothers our kouhai more than the two of us combined and he is _not even on the team_.”

Which was true – the three of them had a propensity towards doting on their kouhai, even if their methods were different. Hajime usually used his fists and a delicately turned phrase, Daichi’s preferred method was his murderous look and angry lectures, while Kaname tended to win everyone over with his earnestness and was also the only person who could make Aone _actually use his words._

Daichi stops stretching and taps a finger to his chin. “Super Mom?”

“Fitting,” Hajime says and they exchange a grin before returning to their stretches.

The gym doors slam open inwards, and Hajime is not surprised at all when it reveals a huffing Kageyama and Hinata, both having finished their laps far too soon.

“And reasons one and two why I refused to be captain,” Daichi gestures with a thumb, pointing at the two, “Are right over there.”

“Oh come on, they’re not _that_ bad.” Hajime says but, well, their bickering was on another level, despite the two of them being attached to the hip.

“You’re just saying that because they look up to you.”

Hajime frowns. “They do _not_.”

“Oh, please,” Daichi rolls his eyes, “Kageyama hero worships you. When I met up with the team on holidays, he nearly combusted out of excitement when he found out that we were on the same team.”

“What.” Hajime can only blink dumbly.

“It’s true.” Daichi says, “And Hinata’s always been a fan ever since you broke through the Datekou’s Iron Wall in that last match with them.”

“What.”

“Hey,” Daichi clasps his shoulder briefly, “Be more excited.”

“Who would be,” Hajime tells him before turning away to mask his reddening cheeks.

“Are you blushing,” Daichi teases, which leads to Hajime aiming a kick at him. He dodges it of course; he’s become annoyingly good at that after three years of practice.

They return to stretching, and Hajime keeps an eye out for Kageyama’s and Hinata’s antics. Predictably, they fight – Kageyama insists that he needs to practice his serves, but Hinata keeps bugging him for tosses. Also predictably, Kageyama serves a volleyball at Hinata, calls him an idiot, and then he relents and gives up, scowling when Hinata makes to throw a volleyball at him for his toss.

Unpredictably, a girl comes knocking at the door of the gym, peeking in her head shyly and staring at Kageyama with an intention.

Hajime knows what this is and his stomach twists.

It’s hard to miss the way Hinata looks, just as the girl addresses Kageyama and leads him outside – the way his eyes widen as he regards the girl, the way his expression falls when Kageyama nods shortly and follows her out, the way he stares down at the ball, openly hurt, because Hinata couldn’t wear masks, even if his life depended on them.

He’s seen this ever since they’d both stepped into Tohokudai’s Volleyball Club. He’s seen the way they work together, like two halves of a whole; the way they bicker and fight, but always gravitate back to one another; the way they have an almost freakish understanding of one another on the court, so much so, that it seems borderline telepathic. It’s almost poetic, like a study in two people utterly perfect for one another, and Hajime might have been a little jealous, were he not intimately acquainted with the fact that appearances can be exceptionally deceiving.

Fact one: Hinata Shouyou is dating a girl at present.

Fact two: Kageyama Tobio does not care a whit about fact one.

That’s the thing: Kageyama does not care, but Hinata wishes that he would. The way Hinata looks at Kageyama sometimes – a look filled with the rawest yearning; so pained, that it hurt to watch – it can’t be mistaken as anything else and, God, looking at him makes Hajime feels like he’s staring into a mirror.

“Hajime?” Daichi calls from his right, “You stopped stretching…”

Once he trails off is when Hajime realizes that Daichi has followed his line of sight and found Hinata at the end of it. Daichi exhales, just a touch pained – just a wrinkle on his brow – and then he sighs.

“Kageyama’s gotten popular, imagine that.” he supplies, “That’s the third confession in two weeks,”

“I know.” Hajime replies in a low voice.

Daichi doesn’t say anything more, and they stand around for a while, silent. Hajime watches Hinata, watches him just stand there with the ball, and looking up once in a while to stare at the door. Every time Kageyama doesn’t come back in, Hinata’s face just falls that much further, and Hajime knows that _so_ well – he’s _lived_ that, in fact – it’s like he’s feeling that crushing despair all over again, every time he looks at the two of them.

He doesn’t know what to say. What do you say to something like that?

“Hey,” Daichi calls and Hajime looks at him, and he’s trying to wear that look of disapproval and failing. Hajime knows what he’s seeing – Daichi knows everything about the follies of his heart, of course. They’ve become good friends, close friends, even, and Hajime trusts him with many things, including this.

“I know.” He sighs in answer.

“It’s just… I’ve seen this,” Daichi swallows, eyes straying to Hinata’s hunching form, “Longer than you have.”

Hajime looks at the side of Daichi’s head. “It’s just hard to watch.”

Daichi nods. “It is, but,” he regards Hajime out of the corner of his eye, one corner of his mouth quirking down, “You can’t _save_ everyone, you know.”

Hajime blinks and Daichi turns his head to look at him fully, arms coming to fold themselves over his chest. “I’m not saving anyone,”

Daichi scoffs. “Not now, you’re not. But you want to, right?”

“Do you seriously expect me to do nothing?” Hajime snaps back immediately, a touch of incredulity sneaking into his tone.

Daichi chooses to stay silent, just studying Hajime for a while as he chews on his lip, and when he speaks, his voice is low.

“You can’t _stop_ him from making his choices, Hajime.” He says, “People make their own mistakes and sometimes we need to let them. Other times, we can’t do anything about them.”

“So what?” Hajime hisses, unexpectedly peeved, “You expect me to sit back and watch him? Do you know how much it _hu_ -”

“I _know_ ," Daichi cuts in, his eyes alight, “You’ve told me enough.”

“Then you should know why I can’t keep watching him do this to himself.” Hajime growls.

“What are you going to do about it?” Daichi says, an edge in his voice as he steps closer to him, lowering his volume, “What, will you just tell him to _stop_? You, of all people, should know _exactly_ how hard it is to do.”

Hajime screws his eyes shut and presses his fists against them. Daichi’s not wrong. He’s been through this so many times – Hajime turning up at his room or Kaname’s, every time Tooru gets a new girlfriend; even though Hajime has long since made his peace with his heart. Daichi’s sat with him and shared drinks, watched him cry over these useless, worthless feelings of his that are the building blocks of his existence, and he’s watched him pick up and put himself back together, time after time.

Hajime has never done well with unfairness, after all. He’s the one who’d stood up for Tooru when he used to be bullied in elementary school for looking too girly. He’s the one who’d always stopped people from bad-mouthing Kageyama at Kitagawa Daiichi. He’s the one who’d told Hinata to look forward, even though he’d failed his first trial for the National team – something about being too short.

He’s the one who lives with the unfairness of life every single day.

But- but that’s the thing - you can’t _do_ anything about it. Daichi is right, what is Hajime going to say to Hinata anyway?

“I can’t _not_ do anything for him,” Hajime tells him and he feels Daichi’s hand, lightly ruffling his hair.

“We’ll be there for him,” he says, soft and low, “That’s all we can do, hm?”

When Hajime looks again, Kageyama is back, too quickly to have accepted a confession. Hinata’s expression – the sense of respite shining there – is enough of a tell. Hajime watches Nishinoya barge in through the doors and barrel down Hinata and Kageyama, saying something about the two of them going too fast, and Hajime exhales, something close to relief.

 _How long till the next time, huh_ , he thinks and turns back to where Daichi is regarding him.

“Yeah,” he says, meeting Daichi’s gaze once before turning away, “We’ll be there for him.”

Daichi slaps his back and then goes to holler at the rest of them, leaving Hajime alone to settle himself.

*

Sitting on the cold bench in December, some eight months later, Hajime thinks briefly about how Nishinoya had looked, before Aone had silently led him off to their inn – uninjured hand clamped in a tight fist, and he was definitely stewing in guilt about their loss. And he knew his reassurances had fallen on deaf ears since Nishinoya _was_ like that – bearing burdens that he didn’t need to bear.

He takes a sip of his whisky, buzzed and edging towards drunk, and he doesn’t care if he ends up intoxicated. He’s done, his last match of university volleyball ended with a resounding loss and his trial for the National team was barely a formality, an excuse to remind him that he wasn’t good enough.

He looks at Hinata then, too small in the darkness, despite his bright hair. He thinks about Tooru as he looks at him, thinks about this new girlfriend of Tooru’s, and remembers again that he isn’t _good enough_.

His filter always breaks when he drinks too much.

“Never fall in love with your best friend,” he tells Hinata, watching him turn to look at Hajime, watching his eyes widen, “Never go so deep that you can never hope to crawl out, alright?”

Hinata nods quickly, still staring at him, his eyes huge in his face. Hajime settles back and take another drink of his whisky, and looks out into the darkness of the park, trying not to think about Tooru and failing.

He doesn’t remember any of this come morning.

*


	10. June 2020

*

_What could Shouyou do? He’d showed up at Iwaizumi’s apartment at midnight, after his_ _wandering had led him to Saitama and he’d wanted a place to sleep and Iwaizumi happened to be_ _the closest. Iwaizumi had taken one look at him and broken out his good single malt – a bottle of_ _Miyagikyo his ex-teammates Hanamaki and Matsukawa had gotten for him at his graduation –_ _and Shouyou still isn’t precisely sure what he’d said, but it must have been something_ _incriminating, considering the way that Iwaizumi had looked at his hungover self the next morning_ _and not made a single crack about drinking way past his limits when he obviously can’t handle it._

*

Hajime abandons his tablet at the sound of a knock, simultaneously grateful for the excuse to break away and annoyed that he'd needed a break at all. A glance at the screen shows the photograph he’s been touching up and he takes note of the others he still needed to get. He stretches, working out the kinks in his shoulders, and then briefly glances at the clock on the wall. A little over ten past midnight, and he wonders who it could be.

No one would brave coming all the way to Saitama for him, except, perhaps Tooru – all to whine about his latest failed date and seek comfort. But then, Tooru’s been too preoccupied with the upcoming Olympics to even bother with dating – or even bother Hajime, thank God – so it couldn’t be him.

There’s another soft knock and Hajime half thinks that he recognizes that tap of flesh on wood, so he looks through the peephole, and spots brightly colored hair.

Flinging the door open, Hajime regards him for a second.

“Hinata?” he says and then immediately has to stifle a yawn. He really needed to stop working such late hours.

Hinata looks up from where he’s been staring at his shoes, and all of Hajime’s exhaustion abruptly slides out of him when he gets a good look at Hinata’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, his voice small, “I just- I just needed a place to sleep, Iwaizumi-san and you were the closest.”

“That’s fine.” Hajime says, looking away and ushering him in, but the helpless, lost look in Hinata’s face is burned into his brain. He knows that look intimately, sees it in the mirror some mornings when he goes too low and returns to that dark place in his mind.

“Go sit on the couch and don’t move,” Hajime tells him and retreats to the small liquor cabinet he maintains, eyeing his bottles. There really is no other choice, and Hajime owes Hinata this much, so he uncaps the bottle of Miyagikyo single malt that Issei and Takahiro had given him for his graduation, two years ago.

Two fingers of whisky and Hajime shoves the tumbler in Hinata’s hand. He eyes it in confusion and Hajime is struck suddenly by how _young_ Hinata looks, even at twenty-two.

“Drink.” Hajime tells him gruffly, taking a sip straight from the bottle. Hinata looks down into the glass for long moments and then, suddenly, he tosses the drink back, throwing the entire thing down his throat in one go.

Where Hajime might have admonished him for drinking too quickly, he doesn’t utter a word now, preferring to only pour more alcohol into the waiting glass.

Hinata doesn’t gulp down the whisky this time. He takes tiny, dainty little sips and Hajime takes swigs from the bottle. They don’t say anything; just sit about and drink. Hajime has no idea what Hinata is thinking about – he just sits there, tumbler gripped between his small hands and he looks lost and confused, like he has no idea what to do.

Hajime doesn’t ask. Instead, he briefly excuses himself to return to his worktable and he turns everything down for the night, knowing he won’t be able to get anything done after now.

When he returns to the living room, Hinata is still sipping on his drink, tumbler gripped between both hands as he lifts it to take a swig. Hajime goes and sits beside him, placing a hand on top of his head, just resting his fingers there briefly before he takes it back. The whole thing feels somewhat familiar, right down to them sharing the whisky. Hajime thinks back to his last volleyball match – he remembers the last point, targeted exactly where Nishinoya would’ve been, had he not been rushed off to the hospital for his hand – but he doesn’t remember much of what happened after.

He has vague, half-formed memories of that night – he remembers telling Hinata something important, remembers being dragged back to the inn and falling asleep to fingers carding through his hair and the scent of Air Salonpas, mixed with hints of vanilla, surrounding him. The last, he’s sure he’s dreamt up, but that’s not important now. What is important is that Hinata’s tumbler is nearly empty and Hajime wordlessly pours in more. Hinata is not the biggest drinker, but he can still hold his liquor well enough. Still, Hajime caps the bottle and puts it on the coffee table.

Hinata takes a gulp of his whisky.

“He said he doesn’t date.”

Hajime blinks, then leans back a little to focus on Hinata again.

“What?”

Hinata’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Tobio doesn’t date.”

The first thing Hajime thinks is that Hinata must be veering towards drunk, for he rarely uses Kageyama’s first name in public. The next is just a soft little, _Oh,_ filled with understanding.

“I mean,” Hinata continues, veering towards watery, “It’s not like I didn’t know. I do. But- but I’d hoped that I was an-”

 _An exception_ , Hajime completes in his head when Hinata cuts himself off.

“You are,” he says, automatic, “An exception, I mean.”

Because Kageyama never gave people allowance, not as much as he gave Hinata, and, at one point, Hajime might have said that it meant something. Well, it _did_ mean something, only not what Hinata hoped for.

“Not in the ways that count,” Hinata replies.

“You _are_ his best friend.” Hajime says, feeling like a massive hypocrite even as he says it, “It counts for more than you think it does.”

Hinata turns to meet his eyes. Hajime tries not to flinch at the way he looks at him, silently telling him exactly what he thought of Hajime’s assurance.

“Does it?” he asks, pointed. His expression might have screamed challenge, despite the red-rimmed eyes – what with his mouth a straight line and the sadness in his voice carrying an edge to it – except- except he’s missing that fire he used to have. Hajime had admired that tenacity of spirit, even in high school and before he’d known him properly – admired the way Hinata fought, facing the world and refusing to back down, despite _everyone_ telling him that he wasn’t enough. He kept proving them wrong, constantly… till he couldn’t, but even then he’d tried.

It was only natural, Hajime’s urge to nurture this fire, to keep it burning. That’s why he’d tried to tell him, in his own way, to step over the ashes of yesterday and to look towards tomorrow. There’s a part of Hinata that reminded him of Tooru, he thinks, that same part that looked up and saw a wall, threatening to crush him.

And Hajime has never been the sort to ignore those who need to be pulled out.

“It does,” he responds to the original question, thinking about Tooru and that small, genuine smile of his, the same one that has forever been reserved for Hajime.

Hinata turns away, lowering his tumbler to rest in his lap.

“How awful is it if it’s not enough for me?” he asks and the edge isn’t there anymore – all that remains is a tremor, audible even through his gritted teeth, “What kind of a friend am I?”

Now this, this Hajime knows; this is something he’s asked himself repeatedly, over the years. He swallows and doesn’t say a word, preferring to keep his ears open. Hinata continues, his voice shaking.

“I don’t even _know_ when he stopped being my friend.” He admits, too honest, even for himself, “He hasn’t been _just_ my best friend in a long time.”

 _I know_ , Hajime thinks, remembering university, remembering how Hinata always glowed too bright in Kageyama’s presence.

Hinata sniffs and Hajime doesn’t even have to look at him to know that there are tears tracking down his face.

“I am in love with him, and it isn’t _enough_ ,” he says and his voice breaks at the end, cut off by the hitch in his breath, the gasp of a sob.

“Hinata…” Hajime tries but he stops, because there is too much he wants to say, but, simultaneously, he wishes to say nothing at all. He doesn’t need to think too hard though, for Hinata is already talking, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand.

“I don’t understand _why_ ,” he hiccups, “We- we _fit_ , don’t we? How can there be anyone else? How can there be _anyone_ who will match me like he does?”

He’s not wrong, of course. Hajime thinks it’s cruel – the two of them, perfect complements in every way that counted. Except… he also thinks about the way Kageyama always looks on the court – so utterly at ease, as if he’s in a place where he belongs, as if he’s found his life’s purpose – and he wonders: is there anything that will bring Kageyama that same contentment that volleyball seemed to?

Hajime doesn’t know how to answer that, so he simply fits his palm between Hinata’s shoulder blades, feeling the tiny body wrack in sobs, and he rubs his back, soothing.

“How do you do it, Iwaizumi-san?” Hinata asks, his words slurring now, but still mostly coherent, “How do you live with it?”

Hajime freezes.

“What?”

Hinata turns back to look at him dislodging Hajime’s hand, and Hajime has seen that expression so many times – has seen the tears track down his face, has seen his eyes practically glow with them. He’s always looked so disturbingly close to a child, especially so at moments like these, and with his face red and blotchy, both from the alcohol and his tears, he looks especially lost, like a kid who’s forgotten his way home.

“You’ve always been so cool and collected,” he sniffs, and the way he looks at Hajime, eyes wide and trusting, it’s like Hajime has got all the answers, “How can I be like you? What do I have to do to live with,” he raises his free hand and twists his fingers to grip the fabric of his t-shirt, right over where his heart beats, “ _This_?”

Hajime is torn, for he was sure that Hinata was talking about these useless feelings that Hajime had and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or not. He’s never talked about this with Hinata, but, then again, he’s never been particularly subtle and it’d come as no surprise if Hinata _did_ know. Hajime could never quite tie down his ardor well enough, after all; it would’ve been easier if he could.

Still, he looks, comprehends what Hinata is asking and his heart comes to something close like breaking. To give so much of yourself to one person and barely get anything in return, it must be the cruelest joke Fates could play on someone and especially on someone like Hinata, who trusted so _much_ and gave up all of himself without even a question.

“Hinata,” Hajime starts, his voice hoarse with the weight of his own emotions, because watching Hinata like this is like watching his own younger self, “I’m nowhere near as collected.”

“But you are,” Hinata insists, earnest and almost desperate, “You don’t get afraid, you never get down. You’re- you’re like a _hero_ half the time and- and I want to be like that. How can I be like that Iwaizumi-san?”

 _I don’t want you to be like me_ , Hajime wants to say but he doesn’t, because his regrets won’t help anyone. Instead, he roots around the cabinet beside his couch for tissues, always kept for any spills, and hands the box to Hinata. Hinata settles his unfinished whisky on the coffee table and accepts the tissues gratefully, then begins wiping down his face.

“I get scared,” Hajime says and Hinata pauses, looks up, “I get down. I’m only human, Hinata, how can not? Everyone does, even the strongest people do. But you know what?”

Hinata swallows, rubbing his nose with a tissue. “What?”

“We pretend that we’re fine.” Hajime tells him, “It’s only thing we can do if we want to move forward, yeah?”

Hinata breaks eye contact with him to look down at his lap.

“What if I don’t want to move forward?”

“Why not?” Hajime asks despite himself.

“I-” Hinata looks up at him and Hajime sees the desperation there, “I’ve just felt these things for so _long_ , I don’t know who I am without them.”

This time, Hajime is the one to look away, aware that his expression must be twisted in fierce empathy. He knows that fear – he _lives_ that fear – but, all the same, Hajime can’t let him make the same mistakes.

“You should learn to be, Hinata.” He tells him, reaching out to pat the bright hair, “It’s for the best.”

He watches Hinata’s bottom lip wobble and more tears well up before Hinata slaps a hand over his eyes, his shoulders shuddering as he begins crying in earnest, all over again. Hajime bites the inside of his cheek as he watches him and he pulls Hinata’s face into his chest, letting the younger man cling to the front of his t-shirt, glad that he can’t see the way Hajime’s trying to keep his face composed and utterly failing.

“I just-” Hinata hiccups, sniffing wetly, “I love him so, _so_ much.”

“I know.” Hajime replies and lets him have his moment, lets him grieve freely for something that never came to pass.

Hinata falls asleep on him, exhausted and drained, and Hajime positions him on the couch more comfortably, throwing a blanket over him. By the time he’s cleared up the living room and positioned a waste basket on the floor next to Hinata, it’s almost two in the morning. He recedes to his bedroom, aware that his sleep will be fitful at best, and he sends a quick message to his boss about working from home tomorrow.

It’s after he’s settled in his futon and is watching the glow in the dark stars Tooru had stuck on his ceiling, despite his ample protests, when he thinks back to nearly six years ago, recalls the terror of letting go all over again. He jots a quick note on his phone before turning to his side and closing his eyes.

The next morning, he fixes a hungover Hinata breakfast and, as he’s sipping on his tea, looking down at the dining table morosely, Hajime reaches out to poke his forehead.

“You’re taking next Friday off and coming with me,” he tells him in his best no-nonsense tone, “I have an assignment and I need some help.”

Hinata blinks and Hajime watches him parse his demand, then turn to him with confusion in his face.

“Where are we going?” he asks and Hajime withdraws, taking a bite of his grilled fish. He chews on it thoroughly before swallowing and then he sips on his miso soup.

Finally, he looks out at Hinata from the side of his eye. “Mount Fuji.”

*


	11. December 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For VikingHedgehog. Happy Birthday! Enjoy the Nishinoya love, you beautiful soul! ❤

Tobio looks around their apartment, lamenting the amount of cleaning they’d have to do.

Holding a reunion close to Christmas had been Suga’s idea, which had slowly snowballed and ended up involving everyone from the Karasuno team, including Hitoka and Shimizu. Obviously Nishinoya had volunteered out their apartment as the venue, disregarding the annoyed glare Sakusa had given him. Komori had been more than accommodating though, flitting around their group with ease and winning over everyone with his charming smile. Sakusa had, predictably, retreated into his own room during the party and locked the door, much to Komori’s and Nishinoya’s constant amusement.

Everyone has almost cleared out and Sakusa has even stuck his face out from his bedroom once, but he’d immediately retreated when he’d seen the mess they’d made. Komori had just laughed at the gesture and leaned towards Tobio conspiratorially.

“You know, I keep telling him,” he’d said, waving a hand at Sakusa’s door, “If he stopped spending so much money on disinfectants and hand sanitizer, he could actually move out into his own apartment, instead of sharing with us.”

Tobio had coughed to cover up his laughter, but Komori had just flashed him a quick smile and then retreated to their kitchen to look for a drink.

Tobio turns to their front door this time. Shouyou is the last to leave, still earning a vicious noogie and admonishments from Nishinoya. Tanaka is not helping; he’s just standing there and laughing, chiming in with words of his own.

“Don’t you dare disappear on us like that, Shouyou, understand?” Nishinoya says, now having retreated, folding his arms across his chest, authoritatively. Shouyou, rubs at his head, making a distraught face at Nishinoya. Unmoved, Nishinoya lowers his pitch and furrows his brow, “I know where you live,”

“See, things like that, Nishinoya,” Komori calls from the kitchen, laughter in his voice, “Are exactly why you’re mistaken for a delinquent.”

Tanaka doubles over in laughter and Shouyou looks away, his shoulders shaking, and he covers his mouth at Nishinoya’s indignant, _Motoya, you bastard!_ Tobio snorts, and Nishinoya whips his head back to level Tobio with an accusing look. Tobio clamps his mouth and averts his eyes, unable to keep his smile down.

“Okay, okay,” Tanaka wheezes finally, “Look, it’s late and Hinata’s place is real far. We should go, already.”

“Such a responsible senpai you are, Ryuu,” Nishinoya mock wipes the corner of his eye, though at this point, Tobio isn’t sure if it’s for show. Nishinoya was a lightweight when it came to holding his liquor – what with his small stature and severe lack of self-control – and Tobio and Komori had tried to be vigilant about his intake. No one wanted a repeat of the infamous Olympic After Party Snapchat Incident. Komori swears that Sakusa had spent four hours cleaning down their shared bathroom after the fact.

Tanaka grins brightly, his cheeks pinking further, and he splays a hand over his chest. “Aren’t I just?”

“We should go, though,” Shouyou says and then his tone goes apologetic, “I really _am_ sorry, Noya-san.”

Nishinoya sobers almost abruptly and Tobio doesn’t look back, afraid that everyone in the room could read the guilt painting his face.

“Ugh,” Nishinoya sounds grudging, “How can I be mad at you when you look at me like that, Shouyou?”

From the sound of it, there is an aggressive round of hugging going around – one that Tobio was most likely to be dragged into; Karasuno loyalties and all that – which is why he escapes to their kitchen. He meets Shouyou’s eyes though, giving him a small smile as a farewell. Shouyou smiles back and, relieved, Tobio goes on his way.

When he enters the kitchen, Komori is sitting on the counter and polishing off the last of the [zunda mochi](http://www.foodlibrarian.com/2011/05/zunda-mochi-from-sendai-japan.html) Asahi had gotten for them from Torono. He pats the space next to him and invites Tobio to share, and that’s how Nishinoya finds them, splitting the last piece between them.

“Did you two finish it without me?!” he accuses, pointing at each of them in turn.

Komori shrugs and jerks a thumb at the plate sitting next to him, piled disturbingly high. “We have leftover fried shrimp, though.”

Nishinoya literally lights up and he makes grabby hands at the plate.

“With tartar sauce?” he asks, sounding hopeful.

Komori grins. “How else will you eat it?”

This earns a happy squeal and Komori holds the plate as three of them crowd around it.

“You know,” Tobio says around a mouthful, after they’ve made a significant dent in the literal mountain of shrimp, “Shouldn’t we be cleaning up?”

“Good point,” Nishinoya goes unexpectedly, slathering his bite with half the contents of the dipping bowl. It’s only Komori’s clicking of tongue that makes him grudgingly shake off the excess sauce, a frown on his face. He takes a bite, “Last time Sakusa took it in _his_ head to clean things, I was out of clothing.”

Komori snorts. “Look, I warned you about his idea of cleanliness before we moved in together-”

“Motoya,” Nishinoya cuts in, pointing his half eaten shrimp in Komori’s face, “He put out my things to be _incinerated_.”

Tobio remembers. He also remembers Nishinoya later taking a bath _before_ Sakusa, every night for the next week, _and_ swiping his water bottle at practice each time he was thirsty. It was only thanks to Komori’s and Tobio’s intervention – mostly Tobio though, because Komori thought that the whole thing was hilarious – that the two went and grudgingly made up, and started co-existing in relative peace again.

Komori raises his shoulders in supplication. “Fine, point taken.”

“Okay, but food first.” Nishinoya says, “We need the strength to clean.”

Neither of them can actually argue against that, so they polish off the plate, fighting over the last piece of shrimp and settling it with a round of _janken_. Komori wins but he concedes the shrimp to Nishinoya’s puppy eyes.

“Watch and learn from your senpai,” Nishinoya says, elbowing Tobio and Tobio watches him scarf down his shrimp in utter triumph, refraining from pointing out that he couldn’t evoke pity with limpid eyes, even if he tried.

Once the plates have been cleared out, Komori settles at the dining table, casually straddling a chair and staring up at the two of them with an expectation. Tobio shares a glance with Nishinoya.

“Well?” Komori prompts when neither of them respond, cocking one stubby eyebrow.

“What?” Nishinoya goes, brow furrowing the slightest bit.

“You two were _real_ excited to get some cleaning done.”

“It’s a practical choice, Komori-san,” Tobio replies.

“You aren’t going to help?!” Nishinoya gestures at Komori, conveying his outrage.

“I am,” Komori replies, calmly folding his arms, “I’m supervising.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying that you’re just going sit on your ass and watch the two of us work.” Nishinoya accuses, prompting a laugh from Komori.

“I didn’t want to use this, Nishinoya,” he wags a finger in Nishinoya’s face, “But you have forced my hand.”

“Bring it,” Nishinoya goes, predictably.

Komori sucks in a breath and lowers his voice, taking on that tone that induced guilt, the same one that flattened Sakusa far too often.

“Those were _your_ friends who made a mess of our place.”

 _Fatality_ , Tobio thinks as he watches Nishinoya dramatically crumple to the ground, though he doesn’t scream it the way Bokuto might have, as he was wont to do each time Ushijima responded to Oikawa’s jabs with nothing more than blank looks, something that _still_ made Oikawa foam at the mouth.

“You-” Nishinoya points up at a brightly grinning Komori, “You’re _such_ a bastard, Motoya!”

“He does have a point, Nishinoya-san,” Tobio adds in and Nishinoya frowns at him.

“Ugh.” He grunts, then gets to his feet, making sure to stick out his tongue at Komori before making his way to the living room. Tobio follows and they begin gathering up the debris around the room – far too many beer bottles, scattered plates of snacks and packets of chips. There is one bag from the nearest convenience store – meat buns, courtesy of Daichi because old habits die hard – and two boxes of Pocky that Tanaka had smuggled in, which had promptly been crushed to so much wafer dust by Shimizu herself.

Tobio returns to the kitchen for a garbage bag, only to find Komori straightening up the place, despite himself. He huffs a quiet laugh at that and pulls out the black plastic bags then kept near their bins, then goes back to clearing up the living room.

Nishinoya brightens when he sees that Tobio has the bag and they both gather up the mess around their room, with Tobio dragging the bag that was becoming steadily heavier, while Nishinoya sought out the rubbish. They work like that, in companionable silence, till they get to their meagre balcony. There had been two attempts made to develop a private, romantic vibe, both of which had ended with a slap, and Nishinoya’s cheek was still red from the force of it.

Nishinoya is picking up a beer bottle from where it’d been left on their ledge, when he sudden speaks up.

“You know,” he starts, voice surprisingly level for him, “I’m glad that Shouyou and you worked it all out.”

Tobio freezes. He’s never talked about Shouyou to anyone, save for Iwaizumi, and even that had been out of pressure. Before he can react though, Nishinoya continues.

“I’m happy that you’re both too good friends to let this break you apart.”

“This?” Tobio finally croaks and that’s when Nishinoya turns to fix him with his bald gaze – peat brown eyes that were too huge in his face and they always, _always_ demanded honesty from a person.

Nishinoya studies him with that same unnerving expression, that one that always cowed Asahi into submission. It also worked with people on the team, sometimes even with Oikawa, when he began doubting himself and his abilities.

“Tobio,” Nishinoya starts, leaning forward and dropping the bottle into the trash bag, “I may not be the smartest person in the room but I’m not actually _blind_ , you know. How many years have I known you again?”

“Long enough.” Tobio returns, without bothering to run the calculations.

“Exactly.” Nishinoya points at him, now leaning against the ledge of their balcony and abandoning all attempts at cleaning up, “I know. We _all_ know.”

Tobio gestures in his direction, with a tilt of his head, aware that he looks confused. “But you always took him out to meet girls!”

“Yeah,” Nishinoya shrugs, “So? He always wanted to come along and nobody is going there to get married, you know?”

Tobio blinks dumbly for long seconds before looking away, unable to form a proper response.

“S-so, you,” he stutters, his train of thought still too far behind, his mouth still catching up with the newest developments, “Y-you all _knew_?”

“What, that Shouyou was in love with you?” Nishinoya says flatly, without any pretenses and straight-forward as ever, “Yeah.”

Tobio stares at him for so long, Nishinoya actually waves a hand in front of his face.

“Helloooo,” he calls, “Did I break you? Because then Oikawa-san is going to kill me.”

“No he won’t,” Tobio responds automatically.

“Yeah, probably not,” Nishinoya isn’t even shamed to challenge that, “But he _will_ bitch about me taking out his backup. You know how much he whined when you had to be benched for your wrist.”

Which, weirdly enough, _was_ true – he supposes it’s because Oikawa had gotten used to having someone shadow him, had gotten used to Tobio subbing in for him when his knee became too much, as bizarre as the whole thing was.

Back to the topic at hand, Tobio regards Nishinoya. He doesn’t look offended or even annoyed at the development; he is exactly like always, just watching Tobio freely.

He feels the need to break the ice, feels like he owes an explanation, even though Nishinoya has never quite cared for anything like that. He won’t ask, Tobio knows this much, but he clears his throat anyway and Nishinoya straightens up the slightest bit, still not taking his eyes off of him.

“I told him I just wanted to be friends,” he says, attempting to sound neutral, but it comes out more defensive than he intends for it to. Nishinoya cocks his head the slightest bit, but he doesn’t comment, “Because he’s my _best_ friend. He wanted some time to think about it and… and we’re trying. I want to try.”

Nishinoya studies him for a while and Tobio feels oddly nervous, like he’s awaiting the results of an exam. When he speaks though, it’s approving and warm.

“Okay,” he flashes a thumbs up at him, “Good.”

And then he turns around, utterly normal, and begins gathering the mysterious pile of candy wrappers that had appeared in their balcony.

“Wait, that’s it?!” Tobio blurts, despite himself. Nishinoya was surprisingly protective of Shouyou after all, and the four months of him not showing up thrice a week, post-practice, to whisk Tobio away, had been an exercise in waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Nishinoya, aside from the weekly questions, hadn’t behaved any differently with Tobio, had been exactly the same.

He looks up at him now, frowning in such a way that made his bottom lip stick out the slightest bit.

“Were you expecting something else?” he asks, sounding confused.

“Yes,” Tobio cries, then immediately covers it up, “I mean, _no_! I mean-”

“Which one is it?” Nishinoya raises an eyebrow.

“Ugh.” Tobio yields, his arms sagging under the weight of the refuse. He struggles with his words for a bit, then, staring at the slogan on Nishinoya’s t-shirt ( _Never hold back_ , the garment tells him; fittingly, Tobio thinks) and he sighs.

“Spit it out,” Nishinoya offers helpfully, placing his hands on his hips, “Have I failed to teach you my ways?”

Tobio smiles in faint exasperation. He almost wished sometimes that he could be like Nishinoya, running headlong into anything, without even a measure of fear. He has seen him doubt himself so few times, it’s almost amazing.

He relents.

“Aren’t you…” he bites on his lip briefly, watching the intrigue in Nishinoya’s face, “Aren’t you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry with you?” he replies immediately, and Tobio resists the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, Nishinoya could fail to read him so utterly when off the court, though Tobio thinks it’s perhaps because he’s so unaccustomed to the thought patterns that were formed from hesitance.

“Because I-” Tobio coughs, bracing himself, “Because I hurt Hina- Shouyou.”

Nishinoya’s eyes widen and he looks like he’s perilously close to being floored. Why, Tobio can’t tell, but he looks back at Nishinoya regardless, suppressing the urge to flinch.

“I won’t be angry at you for something like that,” Nishinoya replies, enunciating carefully, like he’s afraid that Tobio will misunderstand him, “Look, full disclosure – I’m not happy with the result. _But_ , if you,” he juts his chin at Tobio, “Aren’t feeling it, I suppose that’s that. It can’t be helped, you know?”

Tobio nods in response, aware that he’s blinking far too much. Nishinoya scrubs the back of his head then, and looks down at his shoes.

“I am glad you gave him a clean break, actually,” he says, then looks up at Tobio with the usual sharpness in his gaze, “It’s always for the best. You’re right, I don’t like seeing him hurt. I don’t like seeing _any_ of my people hurt. And it’s not like it wasn’t hard to watch you go around like a fucking zombie.” he shrugs, “Oikawa-san actually asked me if you got your heart broken, if you can believe it.”

“I did _not_.” Tobio replies, and he thinks back to the four months of dullness, of thinking he’d never see his best friend ever again, that he’d burned that bridge for good. He’d thought he was normal during practices, that he’d been normal at home, that, aside from a Shouyou shaped hole in his life, everything was as it was.

“I know that,” Nishinoya rolls his eyes, “But, eh, it was fun seeing Iwaizumi-san hit him.”

Tobio huffs in amusement, despite himself. “Of course he did,”

“Yeah,” Nishinoya laughs fondly and his eyes go a little glassy, “He hit him so hard, Oikawa-san spoke with a lisp the entire day.”

Tobio smiles then, and he can picture the entire thing with crystal clear clarity, right down to Iwaizumi’s inevitable apology and a proffered packet of milk bread. He wants something like that with Shouyou, he thinks – unbreakable, despite everything; despite the fact that Tobio’s heart can’t return Shouyou’s love the way he wants him to.

Nishinoya reaches out to pat his arm, drawing Tobio out of his head.

“You know,” he says, “I _am_ angry at you.”

Tobio blinks down at him. Nishinoya continues.

“I’m angry at you for driving him away for four whole months,” he says, a quiet fire burning in his voice, “I’m angry that I didn’t get to see him the entire time. I’m angry that he thought that he couldn’t come to me for this. I’m angry that you made it so he felt uncomfortable coming to our apartment. But…”

“But?” Tobio prompts, even though his voice is small and remorseful. Nishinoya’s grip on his arm tightens and that’s how Tobio knows that this is important.

Nishinoya smiles, a small thing that is no less radiant than Shouyou’s full grins.

“But, I’m happy that you didn’t make me have to choose between both of you.” He says, then lets go of Tobio’s arm, “I couldn’t have done that, you know. You’re both my dumb little kouhai; how could I stand to leave either of you?”

Nishinoya turns away then and begins inspecting the nearly bare balcony for rubbish.

“Just don’t do anything that stupid again, alright?” he advises with an air of finality and Tobio suppresses the urge to laugh at the irony of _Nishinoya_ telling him something like that.

Instead, Tobio exhales and it feels like a weight has been taken off his chest.

“You know, Nishinoya-senpai,” he drawls, aware that he is probably smirking, and he watches Nishinoya’s ears literally perk up, “You’re very cool sometimes.”

Nishinoya turns back to him with starry eyes, then immediately scowls when the sentence registers in full.

“ _Sometimes_?” he makes to hit Tobio, but Tobio steps back quickly, “I am cool _all the time_ , you cheeky bastard,”

“You forgot how to spell your name when those girls asked for your autograph last week,” Tobio tells him, remembering Nishinoya’s bright red blush when two high school girls came bounding up to him when they were just stepping out of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym, gushing about how _cool_ he was and telling him to do his best.

“You’re not supposed to _remember_ things like that!” Nishinoya yells, coloring, and that is Tobio’s cue to drop the garbage bag in his hands. Nishinoya steps right over it, advancing towards Tobio, channeling an aura of menace, “Now hold still so that I can make you forget it.”

“That counts as a threat, Nishinoya-san.” Tobio says and steps back, trying to look neutral and failing to keep the smirk out of his face.

“That’s because it _is_ ,” Nishinoya growls, “Come here, you-”

And that’s when Tobio hightails it back inside the apartment and he rushes to the now spotless kitchen, intent on using Komori as a shield. Komori thinks that the whole thing is unbearably amusing, which is how Sakusa finds the three of them, hours later at midnight – wrestling in the midst of their living room, the space looking like a literal hurricane had torn through it.

Komori goes off to console a traumatized Sakusa, while Tobio and Nishinoya are left to clean up the room, aware that if they did a half-assed job of it, Sakusa’s taunts would be the least of their worries.

“Come on then,” Nishinoya slumps his shoulders, long suffering, fiddling with the switches on their vacuum cleaner and staring at the mess that was their living room, “If we terrify the _princess_ anymore,” he scowls, “Ushijima-san will sit us down and make us listen to the _plant stories_.”

Tobio shudders in commiseration, and they get to work, aware that their coach will yell at them about being lethargic during practice tomorrow.

*


	12. November 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set before the previous chapter and after Chapter 5.

Tobio feels nervous as he stands in front of Shouyou’s apartment. He’d been so out of it at practice, Oikawa had gotten their coach to dismiss him early and let him go with an annoyed _have you really forgotten how to **set** , Tobio-chan?!_

He’s not sure why he is so terrified. This only their usual dinner, the way they used to, before Tobio saw it fit to change their dynamic because he didn’t want to hurt Shouyou any more than he already had.

They’ve talked, exactly the way he’d promised Iwaizumi that he would. And he had – the moment the flight had landed back in Tokyo, he’d manned up and called Shouyou, right there, as Iwaizumi and Moniwa stood around, nursing a coffee each, before the three of them looked for cabs that’d take them home. He blurted out everything, within Iwaizumi’s earshot, said what he had to and then was met with a telling silence at Shouyou’s end. Shouyou had asked for some time to think and Tobio had desperately said that he’d be willing to do anything, if it meant that he could still remain Shouyou’s friend.

And, after two weeks of nearly painful radio silence, he’d gotten a text a couple of days back, asking when he’d be free to visit Shouyou’s place.

Which brings him to the present, staring at the front door, studying the kanji spelling out Shouyou’s family name in precise script.

He takes a deep, bracing breath, and knocks, ignoring the doorbell altogether.

“Coming,” he hears Shouyou call, his voice tinny with distance. Tobio immediately feels the nervousness build and he suddenly, very intimately, understands why Shouyou had always clutched his stomach before difficult matches, despite his ample experience.

It feels like an age before Shouyou opens the door. His voice is calm and polite – a result of age, of maturity, he thinks – when he unlocks the home with a twist of a doorknob.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, pulling the door back, “How can I-”

His voice dies in his throat when he looks up at Tobio, eyes practically bugging out of their sockets and, Tobio thinks with a sense of pity, he looks _scared_.

“To-” he starts automatically, but then he blinks and cuts himself off, “Kageyama,”

Tobio has no such qualms – they have far too much history together.

“Shouyou,” he greets, watching Shouyou’s eyes grow wider and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

“You’re early,” he says, his voice small and Tobio can hear a quaver in it.

“Oikawa-san kicked me out of practice,” Tobio replies and he’s too annoyed to note that he sounds sulky.

That makes Shouyou laugh, which he immediately tries to cover up with a cough. Tobio scowls, hating that Shouyou suddenly felt the need to censor himself when he hadn’t before.

“You can come in,” Shouyou steps back, inviting Tobio inside and Tobio goes, removing his shoes at the genkan and calling out a greeting out of habit, even though Shouyou had always laughed and said that there was no else there. Except, he doesn’t laugh now, he just carefully looks away, mouth clamped shut.

“I-” Shouyou hesitates, worrying his lower lip, “I’ll get you some Pocari?”

That he says it like a question _really_ pisses off Tobio, because Shouyou already knows that Tobio always takes one. And he doesn’t _want_ to get mad – he doesn’t have much right to, for one – but it happens anyway.

“This is stupid,” he spits, the annoyance in his tone evident, and he can see Shouyou’s anger climbing, just from the squaring of his narrow shoulders.

“You didn’t _have_ to come, you know-” he says and that’s as far as he gets, because Tobio grabs him and pushes his face in his chest, patting Shouyou’s hair in a way that he knew the man liked.

“This is okay, right?” Tobio grunts, “I can still hug you, right?”

“This is more like assault, you bastard,” Shouyou replies, words muffled by Tobio’s jersey, and he makes to move away, but Tobio holds fast to the back of his head.

“Tobio, what the fuck?” he goes and Tobio allows him room to look up at him indignantly, the knot of tension in his chest loosening at the usage of his given name.

“You’re my best friend, you asshole,” Tobio tells him, poking at his forehead with a finger, “You owe it to me to tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable. Got it?”

Shouyou stares up at him for a long time, as if reading his face for lies. Tobio watches him back, careful to keep his expression neutral. Then, he finally looks away and steps back from Tobio, wrapping his arms around himself.

Tobio clears his throat, “I meant it. I’ll give you your space and everything; just as long as we can still be friends. I can’t-” he looks away, feels his cheeks color, “I can’t afford to lose you, alright? You’re not replaceable to me.”

Shouyou doesn’t say anything in return. Tobio tries not be miffed at the lack of a verbal reaction – because he’d just bared his soul and said some really embarrassing things as a result – but he turns back, only to find Shouyou sniffling and resolutely staring at his feet.

“God, you’re such fucking bastard,” Shouyou says, watery and annoyed but Tobio recognizes the tone innately, because it was the same way he used to express that he was really pissed, only he wasn’t – he was just awestruck.

“And you’re an idiot, so I guess we make a fine team,” Tobio taps his forehead lightly.

“Fuck _off_ ,” Shouyou returns and he doesn’t shake off Tobio’s arm when it settles around his shoulders.

It comes easy, Tobio thinks – the way they settle back almost immediately. Shouyou already has curry on the stove and he’s shit at cooking, but he’s learned how to make soft-boiled egg and pork curry _exactly_ the way Tobio liked it. Tobio leans against the counter as Shouyou cooks, telling Tobio he can’t complain, since he was the one who didn’t adhere to the schedule and chose to show up early. Tobio doesn’t and he instead assists around the kitchen, vaguely reminiscent of the time when they’d been sharing an apartment, only a year ago.

Strange how time passes so fast. Tobio already feels like it’s been forever since he’s been inducted into the ranks of the National team, even though he _still_ sometimes sets the ball like he used to set for Shouyou.

It’s so comfortable, the way the navigate around one another, and Tobio likes this, wants to keep exactly this – Shouyou smiling and laughing and like he used to before, dropping all pretenses within mere hours of each other’s company. Shouyou gestures elaborately, bitches about the team he’s assists in coaching, complains about their heights and how they can’t nail their quicks perfectly and how the head coach thinks that Shouyou’s explanations are terrible – which, Tobio doesn’t get; because he has _always_ understood them.

Shouyou leaves to attend a phone call at a point and Tobio gets up, maneuvering his way around the 1LDK with ease. He’s getting out of the kitchen area after putting away their plates when he spots it – the stunning photograph of a scene, casually propped against a mug and sitting on Shouyou’s chabudai, where he keeps all his files.

Tobio picks up the frame to examine it and it’s almost ethereal in the way it looks – the dark outline of the _torii,_ the sun radiating in between the two _shiimaki_ , the sea of clouds extending beyond it, all the way to the horizon, and Tobio swears that he can almost see them move.

What really catches his eye though, is the small, dark figure in the foreground, arms spread wide. Tobio stares at it and he doesn’t even have to ask to know that it’s Shouyou – he’d recognize that form anywhere.

Almost absently, he flips it around and the haphazard writing that jumps out at him almost shocks him. He recognizes the handwriting though – and _really_ , there could only be so few people who took such amazing photographs – and he follows the lines with his finger as he reads them - _A reminder that you don’t need anyone to reach the top of the world_ – and he almost smiles. Trust Iwaizumi to nail it without even needing to try.

And, hell, it _was_ true – even if Tobio had constantly stressed that Shouyou was nothing without his tosses on the court, he didn’t honestly believe it anymore. Tobio couldn’t be Shouyou’s wings when the time came to, after all. Shouyou has never needed him for anything – it’s always been just him. If anything, Tobio had needed _him_ , to show him what it was like to have someone’s complete trust, to show him how to trust, how to be more of a ruler and less of a dictator.

His fingers trace the sun in the photograph and he’ll ask about this someday, not now. It felt too soon somehow.

Instead, he returns to his old position near the kotatsu and examines the tiny apartment fondly, noting that Shouyou still didn’t fold his clothes properly and just balled them up and threw them in the laundry basket. When Shouyou returns, Tobio casually points out the stray sock under a chair.

“Aren’t supposed to be an adult now?” he drawls, “Why do you still have your clothes thrown about?”

“And you,” Shouyou scowls at him, “Are supposed to have more tact and delicacy, so I guess neither of us win.”

When Tobio throws the offending sock in Shouyou’s face, he dodges it and laughs so genuinely, a small part of Tobio eases and believes that they will make it through.

*


	13. July 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after chapter 8.

Hajime is a good student and he can count on one hand the number of times he has actually played hooky. Still Kaname promises that he’ll give Hajime his notes, tell their professor that he’d taken ill and even lends him his wide-angle lens, telling him to bring back some great pictures. Daichi is the one to nag him about being on time for his train and is the one who tells the volleyball club that Hajime will be skipping practice.

Even when he settles in the Shinkansen, prepared for two long days of sitting around with his own thoughts, Hajime is still not quite sure about the purpose of the exercise. Sure, he’d heard Natsume-senpai from the club tell them that his sister had recently gone and it had been amazing, but plain intrigue feels like a very poor excuse.

He stops thinking when the train starts moving though, and he sits by the window, earphones stuffed in his ear, and watches the landscape as it goes by, all lit up against the bright afternoon sun.

It’s not much – an hour and a half later, Hajime is alighting with his backpack and camera bag, absently watching the milling crowds of the Tokyo station. It’s tempting, he thinks, to run off to the Chuo line and board it – except there’s really no point, even though Hajime _can_ make the excuse that he came over for his birthday. He’ll most likely miss wishing him at midnight though – mountains aren’t known for their cellular reception – but maybe he can call from a telephone booth. Or right before he gets home.

He’d get angry, most likely – this _would_ mark the first time Hajime hasn’t wished him first – but Hajime is willing to make up for that during their summer holidays.

Right now though, he needs some other focus. He needs to center himself.

He gets out of the station and it’s a bare three minute walk to the bus stop, where he’d be boarding the bus that will take him to Fujinomiya.

Hajime nods politely at his seatmate on the bus, a man who looks to be around his father’s age, and he’s not much for small talk, for he simply nods back and doesn’t say anything more. He also lets Hajime take the window seat, much to his gratitude.

“Don’t thank me,” he laughs, “Look out at the view, alright?”

“Alright,” Hajime replies easily and tries to smile. Charming people hasn’t been his strongest point, after all. The man smiles back though, and it’s the kind of full wattage smile that he’s seen on Tooru’s face when they used to go stargazing as children, and Tooru had just spotted a shooting star. Hajime swallows, banishing nostalgia and the yearning – this is what he came to get away from, after all.

He pats his pockets and withdraws the ticket for the overnight stay at one of the mountain huts near the eighth station. Natsume-senpai had said that his sister had done that – it was advised, after all; the human body needs to adjust to the high altitude – and, from the sounds of it, it had been utterly worth it.

Hajime hopes so.

The scenery is breathtaking, of course – it looks practically untouched, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the city. Hajime watches the deciduous trees extending as far as the eye can see – Mount Fuji was surrounded by exquisite forests – before the bus starts climbing and the greenery thins, then gives way to volcanic ash.

It’s close to nightfall by the time they reach the Fujinomiya 5th station – the highest of Mount Fuji’s fifth stations, sitting at an elevation of 2400 meters. Hajime’s seatmate casually remarks that it’s the last chance for him to stock up on reasonably priced supplies, and Hajime mentally catalogs all the things he has, then picks up some bottles of oxygen and a hiking stick, and gets it branded for a few extra hundred yen.

Standing at the entrance of the Fujinomiya-guchi climbing trail, Hajime takes a moment to look up and admire the lit up trail and there is barely anything he can see of the mountain.

Then, exhaling loosely, he begins.

Hajime is no stranger to hikes – living near the north meant that he’d partaken in the activity over numerous summer breaks, usually accompanied by a whining Tooru. Scaling Mount Fuji isn’t a particular challenge, not to someone experienced and naturally athletic as Hajime. Perhaps the biggest challenge is the thinning air, as he goes higher. Still, even that can be combated by staying hydrated, keeping a steady pace and taking frequent breaks to let the body adjust to the altitude.

It’s a tedious, single-minded task, climbing; and it leaves no room for any other thought but of taking the next step, of illuminating the ground before him and watching out for uneven ground. One can’t really climb mountains without focusing, after all.

Hajime revels in it. He’d dropped off his heavy thoughts at the entrance, when he’d deposited the requisite admission fee before starting the climb. It’s so freeing, he thinks, having a goal to work towards without care for the everyday life he’d left back in Sendai, back with Daichi and Kaname and his volleyball club. In this moment, nothing else matters but the summit, and he’d turned off his phone anyway.

It takes about an hour or so for him to reach the sixth station, where a kindly looking lady dutifully brands his hiking stick, reminding him to do so at the rest of the stations.

Near the seventh station, the path becomes a little more perilous – now that it’s made of all rocks – but most of the other climbers barely even bat an eyelash. Anyone taking this path is experienced enough and they’re all nice and orderly, climbing without kicking up a fuss, simply focused on their destination, the summit.

There is nothing to see to be utterly honest – the mountain is barren. There is no vegetation, just a neat dirt path marking out their trail. Hajime has heard that the clouds and the sunrise is a breathtaking sight as result – what with nothing blocking out the view.

He wants to see that, he thinks with an excitement. He wants to capture that scene, to immortalize it in an array of pixels. Photography gives him that same kind of feeling that spiking a volleyball gives him, and the sense of satisfaction when he takes a perfectly timed photograph and when sees the ball through to the other side of the net, is exactly the same.

He hasn’t thought too far into the future, but Kaname has already made him consider building up a portfolio. He’s taking sport sciences, sure, and he’s positive that the career path isn’t terrible, but he’s not sure if that’s what he wants from his life. Tooru’s still adamant that Hajime make it to the pro leagues with him and Hajime half wishes he could still join him in building those castles in the air, but Hajime has forever been the solidly practical sort of person. And, there were the facts – he wasn’t good enough and most likely would never be.

He’s learning how to live with that.

He’s nineteen, the world stretches out with endless possibilities for him, and he’s trying to learn how to want something else that is within reach.

The eighth station, he reaches at about ten p.m., after some three hours of leisurely climbing and a lengthy rest stop at each of the other two stations. Producing his ticket, he’s led to an area lined with sleeping bags and it’s primarily empty, so Hajime takes the corner-most one and succumbs to the exhaustion of the long day, setting his alarm for one in the morning.

It takes him a few tries to wake up – Hajime hasn’t been much of a morning person after all – but he does, given that he’d promised Kaname that he’d get a good photograph. Some fifteen minutes of refreshing himself later, he thanks the man at the reception desk, giving a small bow for his service.

There are climbers and it’s surprisingly uncrowded. He supposes it’s because folks want to time their ascent in such a way, that they’d reach the summit just as the sunrise starts. Consulting his watch, Hajime notes that it’s approximately three or so hours to sunrise, plenty of time for him to reach the top.

He returns to the trail, mind still a little hazy from sleep, but the biting mountain wind wakes him up.

It’s not particularly difficult, the rest of the climb – save for the final steep stretch between station 9.5 and the summit – and even with frequent breaks to drink water and eat, Hajime reaches the summit with an hour and a half to spare till sunrise. There are a few people, primarily enthusiasts, who’re congregating atop the highest peak in Japan, and he basks in the moment, awestruck that he has actually made it. Hajime ends up sitting near the front where there is a rope border around some wooden benches, marking out the plot as a waiting area, joining a couple of other people who were there.

It’s cold, the temperature has plummeted and the freezing wind isn’t helping things. Hajime takes out his camera anyway and peruses the couple of pictures he’s taken on his way up – primarily of the elevation markers at each of the stations and of the lit up trail of hikers climbing up. There are scattered shots of the hikers but nothing distinct, considering that it was far too dark to take a decent picture.

He shuts off his camera and tucks it within the folds of his clothes, then settles in for the wait. Daichi’s and Kaname’s combined mothering had led to him taking along weather proof gear, and it was keeping him comfortably warm, provided that he didn’t move too much. Eyes fixed over the lightening horizon, Hajime looks out at now discernable clouds. They’re unbroken and stretch out towards the horizon, owing a resemblance to a literal sea.

The Tokyo skyline might have been visible, Hajime thinks, were the clouds fractured.

Tokyo – some three hundred kilometers from Sendai, barely a train ride away. Hajime hasn’t been calling or messaging and it’s only a matter of time till the news gets back to their parents, over the summer most likely. That’s not to say that he hasn’t been responding – he has – but he hasn’t been calling first or messaging first, like he might have otherwise. Like he used to before.

It’d be too tempting then, hearing Tooru’s voice over the line and wanting him just next door and not one and a half hours away. He’d start regretting his decision too, that he’d chosen Tohokudai over Chuo, over Waseda, over Tokai, despite the fact that he knows that, logically, this is the best choice.

But then, it’s also this distance that is helping him cope and giving him space to grieve – the incident from ten days ago had shown that he wasn’t capable of facing Tooru with a girlfriend. He’d done so before, sure, but he’d had so much more of Tooru then, not like the scraps he’d be given at university. Were he there, he’d be stuck with gritting his teeth and watching him with someone else, a constant reminder that Tooru wasn’t like Hajime, that Tooru liked girls and only girls, while Hajime was less discerning.

It’s not that Hajime hasn’t dated – he has; he used to get confessions too – but those were mere distractions, girls he tried to like, tried to picture a future with. There have been other boys too, though those are never talked about, those are swept under the rug, as is the ‘proper’ way and delegated to that small box labelled _‘experiments’_.

It’s true though, that neither of his relationships lasted long enough to make a blip on Tooru’s radar – and, despite the fact that the two of them were best friends, Hajime had too many of his own secrets. Hajime was too focused on volleyball and, by extension, Tooru, to even bother cultivating those relationships. He has dated four different girls since he was thirteen and each of them pointed out the same thing – _who is more important, me or him?_

And, problem is – how is that even a choice? Hajime has spent a literal lifetime taking care of Tooru, saving him from his own demons. That’s all that Hajime knows. He’s been trying, in university, trying to resonate with people on a soul-deep level that he does with Tooru, trying to stitch back his torn up heart and trying to pretend that he’s hasn’t been left forever incomplete.

Because, that’s the thing – people don’t fit like puzzle pieces; but he and Tooru do.

And, isn’t that ironic – the two of them have disagreed over far too many things, after all.

Relationships aren’t effortless, aren’t drawn out from nothing. They take work, they take adjusting, they take compromises. Forging understanding takes time and patience and Hajime _knows_ that – he given over so much of himself when creating that bond with Tooru, more than he should have.

It was evident, just how strong Tooru’s pull was – three months of work put in to finding new friends, finding new people to date and drumming up interest for them, all of it had gone to hell with a single photograph and Tooru’s happy little _I got a new girlfriend, Iwa-chan!! Isn’t she cute? (_ _ღ˘_ _⌣_ _˘_ _ღ)_

He needed to stop – this much he knows, logically. And even as someone who was so practical and grounded, he now understood how incredibly difficult it was to ignore the call of his stupid, impulsive heart, who never listened to reason.

There’s an excited murmur that runs across the line he’s sitting in, and only then does Hajime notice that the dark azure blue of the sky has gone and lightened up considerably. Looking around, he notices that people have come to sit beside him, and, looking behind him, there is a crowd of people, all talking and chattering in anticipation.

It’s kind of fascinating, he thinks absently, how he is here, alone, but he doesn’t _really_ feel alone.

He’s no stranger to crowds – Sendai is a large city. Maybe it’s not a metropolis like Tokyo, but it’s urban enough, and Hajime has seen his share of crowds. But, frankly, it’s nowhere as mixed as the crowd on top of Mount Fuji, represented by people of all ethnicities; something like a melting pot, despite the strong Japanese representation. He understands this, he _likes_ this – being together with this group of people, all of them with a single goal in mind.

He powers up his camera then, realizing that he hasn’t actually taken too many photographs. Adjusting the aperture takes a while, since this is the first time he’s taking photographs of a landscape of such a large scale. Several test shots and a few more of playing with the settings of his camera, he ends up settling for whatever feels good enough.

The sight really is gorgeous though – the way the sky is shaded in numerous hues of blue, almost like a meticulously blended painting, with the lightest color near the horizon and the blue becoming more and more intense, the higher the line of sight goes. The sky below reflects the blue though, a deep ultramarine, and it now owes an even greater resemblance to a sea. There are breaks in the cloud now, and Hajime can see the lit up skyline of Tokyo.

It’s when the yellow begins coloring the horizon when there’s a whoop from the crowd behind, followed by indulgent laughter at the show of excitement. Surprisingly, Hajime laughs himself – it’s so easy to get carried away.

And, well, he commiserates with that yell – it’s an oral representation of what the more experienced climbers look like. The men who’re sitting beside Hajime have that expression of intense concentration on their faces, with their cameras out, eyes fixed on the horizon, like they don’t want to miss one single thing.

Hajime takes a candid of theirs and they don’t move, even when they hear the shutter of his camera go off.

He turns back to the horizon after a quick glance at his watch – fifteen more minutes.

Hajime watches the yellow intensify along the horizon. It’s almost fascinating just how subtle the process is, just how it is harkening the arrival of the sun. The hue seeps upwards, into the white of the sky, blending in so finely, it forms a pinkish-orange color that almost artfully melts into the blue above.

 _Goraiko_ – literally the arrival of light – and Hajime thinks it fits.

When the sun actually peeks out through the clouds, it comes as a bit of a surprise and it’s nothing, nothing at all – just a pinpoint of an intense yellow-orange light – but it floors Hajime all the same. He’s not sure what it is, but all he can do is watch as the sun ascends – higher into the sky, changing the play of light and shadows with every inch it climbs – and he completely forgets about his camera. His breath catches in his throat and he doesn’t know if it’s the delayed reaction to the cold, but he’s shuddering, shaking, and he doesn’t know _why_.

He feels small, downright insignificant, in the face of this. The sun rises each morning, sets each evening – he _knows_ this – but actually seeing it happen is a completely different thing. He's suddenly forced to reckon that the world moves on, that the earth rotates and rotates, without stopping, and the tatters of Hajime’s heart are useless in the grand scheme of things. They mean nothing to the universe, they mean nothing to Tooru. They will never mean anything and it’s just Hajime who’s sitting here, mourning the ashes.

Sure, Daichi may be right when he says that no one can blame him for how he feels, but one _can_ call him stupid to keep feeling it, yes?

There are cheers rising up all around him and Hajime wants to cheer with them, celebrate life and existence, but he instead pulls his hood around him tighter, lower, and he feels the tears track down his face. He loves, hard and deep and endlessly, and it means exactly nothing to anyone else.

That realization settles something in chest, erases the constant gnawing ache that persisted and grew – that laid low for a while, but it always, always came back. He watches the sun rise and, he thinks, the world is so much larger than him. That nature is a miracle in itself, that, were it not for nature, he wouldn’t be feeling at _all_.

It is absolutely beautiful though, this much Hajime can’t deny – what with the sun a bright yellow ball above the horizon, rays radiating outwards from the center, and it colors the sea of clouds with the faintest hint of pink. It’s nothing like he’s ever seen and, right then, he realizes that he wants to see _more_. He wants to see the world like this, at its rawest and most beautiful. He wants to capture this beauty on his own terms, wants to experience it and live and breathe it.

And then, just then, he makes the connection – why he’d felt that brief overwhelming thing just as he’d seen the sun peek out through the clouds. He knows this terror, this simultaneous hit of jubilation and dread – it’s exactly like when he was fifteen. It’s exactly the way he’d felt when he’d watched Tooru give him that wide smile, watched his eyes shine with mirth and heard him say the words with just a touch of exasperation, like Hajime was being silly. It’s exactly the way he’d felt when he’d realized that he got to keep this boy for the next three years, for the duration of high school.

It’s exactly the way he’d felt when he’d fallen in love for the first time in his life.

This time, Hajime does nothing to stop his tears or the wide smile stretching across his face; he simply feels all that there is to feel and he watches the sun rise even higher, watches it change his entire world.

He lifts his camera, focuses, and presses the shutter release.

*

Years later, Hajime sits in the same place, focused on the horizon and not on the fidgeting twenty-two year old next to him. Tooru’s complaints have quietened, though he is now sulking about the stars having disappeared, what with the oncoming dawn.

This is supposed to be their last summer break together, which is why Tooru had whined and bitched and Hajime had ended up caving and taking him along on his usual annual hike up Mount Fuji, despite the fact that Tooru’s knee could potentially worsen. He _was_ on next year’s Worlds squad, after all.

But, as was usual, Tooru hadn’t taken no for an answer, and Hajime _had_ to bring him along, and, with the perilous descent, he’d most likely need to carry the idiot down as well.

Still, Tooru straightens when Hajime nudges him and looks at the horizon, but there is barely any reaction when the sun begins its ascent – just a wide yawn and a smacking of lips.

“Can we go home now?” Tooru grumbles in a sleepy voice and it’s just so _typical_ , Hajime actually bursts out laughing. Hajime isn’t looking at him, but he can literally feel Tooru’s gaze against the side of his head, “This is _boring_.”

“You’re the one who invited yourself,” Hajime tells him and Tooru just makes a dissatisfied noise and shuts up, giving Hajime the chance to take another photograph. Perhaps this would be better than the years before, but he doesn’t really care to compare – he just takes the picture, a memento of this instance in time.

It’s when the sun has risen fully that the crowds begin to disperse, to start their trek down, but Hajime remains seated, basking in the moment and finding that peaceful corner of his soul, all elicited by the awe-inspiring view from the top of the world. It fuels him, centers him before difficult examinations, before difficult matches, and he files away every little detail about atmosphere.

Tooru doesn’t say a word, almost as if he understands just how sacred this ritual is for Hajime. He just huddles close and leans his head on Hajime’s shoulder, twines his gloved hand with Hajime’s bare fingers, like they used to as children.

Hajime lets him, even though he doesn’t grip back.

“I’ve decided,” he says finally and Hajime turns to look down at him.

“What?” he prompts.

“I’m done with dating.” Tooru declares sulkily.

“Is this about that Mikiko girl?”

“Well _obviously_ I am going to put volleyball over her,” Tooru says heatedly and Hajime remembers that their break up had been ugly, “She already _knew_ that; I’m on the Worlds squad, for God’s sake!”

 _Then why do you even date_ , Hajime doesn’t say, even though it’s a valid point.

“Don’t be too modest,” he quips instead, heavily sarcastic, and Tooru hits him with their linked hands.

“It’s true!” he screeches, then promptly pouts, “And anyway, as long as I have volleyball and my Iwa-chan, I don’t need anything else.”

Hajime pauses. There’s a part of him that is touched, even though Tooru doesn’t mean it the way Hajime wants him to. He simply untangles their hands and reaches up to card his fingers through Tooru’s hair, and Tooru lets him, settling more closely together.

Inhaling the cool mountain air to settle himself, Hajime tries to sound amused, but it only comes out too fond. “Not even milk bread?”

Tooru actually thinks about it, if the extended silence is anything to go by.

“Maybe?” he goes in a small voice and Hajime smacks the back of his head lightly, even though it earns him a betrayed sound and a kick to the shin.

“You’re so _greedy_ ,” Hajime laughs and Tooru just turns to him with an indignant look.

“I am allowed to have three things!”

“Since when am I a thing?”

“You know what I mean!”

Hajime laughs again and Tooru makes to push him away, except it’s only a token attempt and he settles down soon enough, tucking himself into Hajime’s side.

“I mean it, you know,” Tooru says after they’ve been sitting quietly for minutes on end, simply watching the sun brightening the sky, “You’re my Iwa-chan. You’re my best friend. Other things fade and change, but we _don’t_.” and here he lifts his head from Hajime’s shoulder and Hajime turns to look at him, surprised by the seriousness there. He blinks and Tooru looks back, then continues, “And you’re too important to lose. Remember that, okay?”

Hajime looks down at the dirt and volcanic ash making up Mount Fuji, the wooden slats of the bench, and he nods.

“Good,” Comes the satisfied answer and then Tooru shakes off Hajime, and snakes his arm over Hajime’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Hajime goes easily and then, impulsively, turns his face to bury it in Tooru’s chest. He feels rather than hears Tooru’s chuckle, and Tooru runs a hand through Hajime’s hair, affectionate.

They sit there and watch the world light up again, and Hajime smiles, content.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Annnd, CUT. 
> 
> This was incredibly difficult to write, but it was also something I needed to get out of my system. Two chapters actually ended up being scrapped since they were too shippy (and one had Ushijima too T^T) and that would defeat the purpose of this whole story. Still, this marks the end of the series, and I'm really happy that I got to write this. I'd never juxtaposed nature against an introspective narrative before (to be honest, there wasn't a LOT of that, but _still_ ), so this was an interesting exercise. :D 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3


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